ALVMNW  BOOK  FYND 


WE  OTHERS 


WE  OTHERS 

STORIES  of  FATE,  LOVE  and  PITY 


TRANSLATED  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF 

HENRI  BARBUSSE 

AUTHOR  OF  "UNDER  FIRE,"  ETC. 
BY 

FITZWATER  WRAY 


NEW  YORK 

E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 

68 1  FIFTH  AVENUE 


COPYRIGHT,  1918, 
BY  E.  P.  BUTTON  &  COMPANY 

All  Rights  Reserved 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


CONTENTS 

BOOK  ONE:  FATE 

PAGE 

THE  BAD  LITTLE  MOON 3 

FORCE 9 

FATE? 15 

IMMOBILITY 21 

SCARLET  THREAD 27 

THE  WATCHMAN 33 

BLIND  JUSTICE 39 

THE  WAG 45 

THE  GREEN  SPECTRE 50 

THE  OTHERS 55 

BOOK  TWO:  THE  MADNESS  OF  LOVING 

THE  FUNERAL  MARCH   .     .     .    » 63 

THE  WAY  THEY  WENT 69 

A  TALE  OF  FOUR 74 

THE  FAIRY  TALE 80 

RESURRECTION 86 

THE  DREAM 92 

THE  STRICKEN 97 


c  »•/  />  o  /i 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  FIRST  LOVE 103 

THE  LIBATION 108 

A  DREAM  Too  GOOD 113 

A  TRUE  JUDGE .  120 

THE  THREE  MADWOMEN 126 

THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 132 

THE  APPARITION 137 

THE  LAST  STEPS 143 

THE  PRESENCE 149 

THE  INNOCENT 154 

AFFECTION 160 

BOOK  THREE:  PITY 

THE  EVIL  EYE 169 

THE  STONE  MAN 176 

THE  ELEVENTH 182 

THE  BAD  CUSTODIAN .     .188 

THE  CROSS  OF  HONOUR 195 

SAAR 201 

THE  GREAT  DEEDS  OF  LANTURLU 208 

THE  MIRACLE 214 

THE  OTHER  WORLD 220 

THE  BROTHER 226 

THE  MORT 232 

REVENGE         238 


CONTENTS  vii 

PAGE 

THE  NAME 244 

THE  ONE  GROWN  OLD 250 

THE  MOTHER 256 

THE  GREAT  MEMORY 262 

THE  MISTAKE 269 


BOOK  I 
FATE 


THE  NAUGHTY  BAD  LITTLE  MOON 

THEY  emerged  from  the  ground — one,  two,  three, 
up  to  six — under  the  downfall  of  rain  and  night. 

One  would  say  rather  that  they  were  emerging  from 
out  of  water;  for  the  continuous  downpour  of  a  month 
had  drowned  the  scrub  and  given  a  sea-like  look  to  the 
plain  surrounding  Adrianople  and  Devanjaros. 

In  the  yellow  spray  of  twilight  each  of  them  showed 
like  a  tall  mass  of  sheepskins,  whence  spurted  the  bar- 
rel of  a  rifle.  All  six  were  crowned  with  green-topped 
caps  of  astrakhan. 

They  were  a  patrol  of  Macedonians,  incorporated 
with  the  Bulgarian  army  and  passing  through  the  out- 
posts. 

Faltering  and  rocking  in  the  ashen  whirlwinds,  they 
waved  their  long  arms  like  the  sails  of  a  windmill, 
made  the  sign  of  the  cross,  and  pointed  their  black 
faces  to  right,  to  left;  and  the  big  troubled  eyes  they 
opened  wide  were  rat-like. 

At  fifty  paces  a  branch  that  pricked  up  from  the 
glistening  ground  began  to  flutter,  and  the  Macedo- 
nians steered  for  the  hole  whence  the  signal  came. 

It  was  the  abandoned  trench.  Sergeant  Naritch  and 
his  five  men  had  gone  to  earth  there  and  had  given  the 
signal. 

These  six  Bulgarians  were  fond  of  the  six  Mace- 
donians. Diplovitch  and  Kaloub  were  companions  of 

3 


4  WE  OTHERS 

long  date.  The  old  brigand  Alexis  had  formerly 
taught  Naritch  law.  Potrof  and  Reff  were  such  near 
cousins  that  they  had  laughed  till  they  cried  when  they 
discovered  it  at  their  first  meeting.  As  for  Sulei- 
man and  Nazif,  they  had  to  avenge  the  murder  of 
her  whom  they  both  loved,  so  they  were  more  than 
brothers. 

Since  the  beginning  of  the  siege  these  twelve  men 
had  gathered  together,  at  that  grey  hour  when  rifles 
become  blind  and  are  obliged  to  sleep. 

They  used  to  meet  in  the  old  trench,  now  worthless. 
There  they  sat  and  rested,  face  to  face,  their  feet  in 
the  same  mud.  Fraternally  they  exchanged  a  few 
words,  with  a  mien  at  once  ferocious  and  tranquil. 
They  said,  "It  will  be  a  long  war,"  and  "May  God 
smash  the  Turk !" 

Then,  saying  no  more,  the  twelve  men  would  fall  to 
thinking,  and  their  hearts  were  fuller,  their  thoughts 
more  solemn,  for  thus  touching  each  other.  At  last 
they  would  separate  and  the  two  squads  return  to  camp 
by  their  two  ways. 

This  evening  the  comrades  in  arms  were  sad  when 
they  assembled.  The  ceaseless  rain,  the  unyielding 
cold,  and  a  sort  of  fatigue,  huge  and  new,  oppressed 
them  curiously. 

"The  war  will  never  end !"  announced  Kaloub,  and 
his  cheeks,  black  as  gunpowder,  twitched  with  grim- 
aces. 

"Never!"  replied  Nazif,  yawning  like  a  dejected 
wolf. 

They  all  lowered  their  heads  and  spat.  And  as  it 
happens  when  the  malady  of  melancholy  overmasters 


THE  NAUGHTY  BAD  LITTLE  MOON      5 

a  company,  they  thought  of  mysterious  things,  to  them- 
selves at  first,  then  aloud. 

"The  moon's  got  the  shape  of  the  enemy's  crescent," 
said  Kaloub  in  a  changed  voice,  like  some  one  who  be- 
gins to  sing. 

"A  bad  sign,"  declared  Alexis  the  venerable  bandit, 
who  had  experience  in  matters  of  life  and  death ;  "it  is 
the  bad  little  moon." 

He  related  the  legend  of  the  bad  little  moon,  who  kills 
by  devious  means  all  those  on  whom  she  looks  down. 

They  raised  their  heads  and  squinted  towards  the 
slender  crescent,  now  veiled  in  mourning. 

"One  should  not  tempt  the  moon !"  muttered  Potrof , 
who  was  a  new-wed  man,  though  turning  grey.  "Bad 
luck  to  us !" 

"I'm  sleepy,"  said  Reft,  plaintively,  like  a  child. 

"Let's  be  going!"  growled  Alexis.  He  fixed  his 
bayonet  in  his  untanned  leggings,  where  the  Macedo- 
nians carry  their  wooden  table-tools  as  well,  for  they 
wear  no  waist-belt. 

One  by  one  the  Macedonians  went  away.  The  Bul- 
garians watched  them,  and  regretted  their  going. 
Then,  instead  of  setting  off  in  their  turn,  they  remained 
in  the  ditch,  prey  to  a  great  but  random  menace,  wor- 
ried by  the  gaze  of  the  enemy  moon,  inebriate  with  fa- 
tigue and  superstition. 

Each  mused  by  himself.  Sergeant  Naritch  saw  his 
little  home  and  his  wife,  whose  heavy  dress  showed  as 
many  colours  as  a  flowerbed.  Dreaming,  he  saw  the 
sharp  turn  in  the  path,  where  a  beloved  little  laugh  an- 
nounced the  coming  of  a  golden  head.  He  caught  the 


6  WE  OTHERS 

scent  of  the  hedge,  and  recognised  the  stunted  willows 
that  stand  in  rows  along  the  brook  like  dolls. 

Suddenly  he  cocked  his  chin  and  rubbed  his  eyes. 
He  could  see  nothing  more  than  the  drenched  darkness, 
and  right  at  the  bottom  of  it  the  pointed  scimitar  of  the 
moon,  hanging,  gleaming. 

He  shook  himself.  What  were  they  thinking  of? 
It  was  late.  Their  little  father  the  colonel  would  burst 
from  his  tent  on  their  tracks,  with  the  scarlet  lining  of 
his  grey  cloak  dancing  like  flames,  and  then  beware ! 

"Come,  en  route !" 

They  set  themselves  in  motion,  weeping  from  their 
yawns.  With  contracted  faces  they  hoisted  themselves 
out  of  the  long  ditch. 

They  marched  and  marched,  opening  their  eyes  im- 
moderately wide,  and  receiving  a'  rough  blast  of  rain 
on  their  faces  every  time  they  risked  a  look  up  at  the 
moon. 

How  now?  Still  no  sentry.  They  stopped.  They 
had  gone  astray.  It  was  the  fault  of  the  moon  and  its 
half-light,  its  false,  misleading  light. 

They  shivered  and  set  off  again,  lifting  their  feet 
high  out  of  the  bog.  Quite  accurately  they  avoided  the 
shell-holes — little  lakes  that  would  drown  a  team  of 
horses.  They  are  reddish  by  day.  At  the  end  of  half 
an  hour,  no  fires,  nothing. 

They  tried  to  better  their  bearings  in  the  huge  plain 
of  mud,  and  again  they  filed  forward  with  hanging 
heads. 

Suddenly  a  rifle-shot 

The  sergeant  swore.  He  turned  all  ways,  like  a 
wind-vane. 


THE  NAUGHTY  BAD  LITTLE  MOON      7 

"We're  in  the  Turkish  lines!" 

The  remark  would  have  seemed  ridiculous,  so  re- 
cently had  they  left  the  old  trench,  if  it  had  not  been 
for  the  moon's  hatred  through  the  whole  business. 
They  shook  their  heads,  and  Kaloub  growled,  "We 
should  have  gone  back  to  camp  along  with  the  others ; 
the  Macedonians  smell  the  right  way  with  their  noses." 

They  stood  still,  their  faces  intently,  furiously  for- 
ward. 

"Ah,  there  are  enemies  watching  us,"  gasped  Diplo- 
vitch. 

The  uncertain  light  of  the  moon,  slightly  cleared  by 
a  squall,  showed  the  shapeless  outlines  of  soldiers, 
grouped  in  the  scrub,  quite  near,  within  hail. 

"Curses!"  barked  another  Bulgarian. 

So  sure  were  they  of  the  trap  into  which  the  moon 
was  leading  them  that  they  could  hardly  help  yelling  in 
the  terrible  relief  of  having  at  last  discovered  the 
Danger. 

Very  quietly  Naritch  gave  the  order  to  fire.  As  if 
they  had  overheard,  it  was  the  enemy  party  that  fired 
first. 

Potrof,  the  man  who  had  just  been  married,  trem- 
bled, held  his  belly,  and  fell,  shaking  his  head  in  vigor- 
ous protest. 

The  rifle-shots  crackled  and  multiplied  on  both  sides. 
Quickly  men  fell.  The  last  who  stood  leaned  forward, 
leaned  farther,  and  lay  full  length.  And  it  seemed  to 
him  in  an  agonised  dream  that  some  one  yonder,  among 
them  who  had  killed  him,  groaned  his  name.  The 
death-rattle  arose  on  both  sides,  then  weakened,  and 
blended  gently,  like  music. 


8  WE  OTHERS 

All  was  quiet  and  still  when  a  squad  came  up,  dan- 
gling lanterns. 

Twelve  corpses.  There,  the  six  Macedonians ;  there, 
the  six  Bulgarians.  Preyed  upon  by  unnatural  fear, 
confused  by  a  fantastic  legend,  neither  party  had  been 
able  to  regain  the  camp.  The  men  of  the  two  patrols 
had  but  half  seen  each  other,  like  shadows.  And  they 
had  killed  each  other  at  random,  blindly,  gropingly, 
without  recognition,  without  knowing  that  they  liked 
each  other,  without  understanding  that  they  were 
brothers — as  always  happens  in  war. 


FORCE 

" ^"INE,  ten!"  droned  the  referee  through  the 

•**  ^  scrupulous  silence. 

They  carried  Phil  M'Cue  away  motionless.  Then 
a  huge  uproar  lifted  the  roof  of  the  basement  room  and 
its  smell  of  a  den  of  wild  beasts,  for  here — about  fifty 
years  ago  now — the  sensational  prize-fight  had  just 
ended  between  Phil  M'Cue,  champion  of  Australia,  and 
Otis  Yerre,  champion  of  the  Pacific  Coast,  and  idol  of 
San  Francisco. 

So  the  gentlemen  amateurs  of  the  'Frisco  ring  gave 
themselves  up  whole-heartedly  to  cheering  their  big 
Yerre,  who  had  just  put  M'Cue  to  bed  so  thoroughly, 
after  having  wiped  out  so  many  other  heavy  weights 
of  equal  or  less  celebrity,  at  the  Mechanics'  Hall,  or 
Woodward's  Pavilion. 

All  the  same,  and  on  both  sides,  there  were  some  ex- 
perts of  the  noble  art  who  thought  that  big  Yerre  had 
hit  rather  hard  at  the  end.  M'Cue  was  a  good  sort, 
and  a  fighter.  Brave  and  prodigally  generous,  he  did 
not  deserve  such  severe  punishment.  By  the  sixth 
round  he  was  no  longer  a  boxer.  He  seemed  rather 
a  man  decapitated,  who  had  had  his  head  put  on  again 
and  been  set  up  on  his  feet.  With  drooping  arms  he 
oscillated  to  right  and  left,  as  a  baboon  does.  Then, 
instead  of  breathing  on  him,  big  Yerre  drew  back  a 
pace,  waited  and  took  aim ;  and  his  left  had  hooked  the 

9 


io  WE  OTHERS 

queer  figure's  carotid  artery  with  a  force  that  nocturnal 
burglars  might  yearn  to  have  for  the  persuasion  of 
locked  doors. 

Naturally,  M'Cue  collapsed  on  the  ground  with  a 
noise  of  dislocation;  and  no  less  naturally  he  died  for- 
ty-eight hours  later,  while  still  unconscious,  and  vomit- 
ing blood.  Thus  may  a  champion  act  towards  those 
who  are  rightly  called  "boiled  fish",  but  not  towards 
honourable  adversaries. 

Big  Yerre  continued  his  triumphant  career.  A  star 
in  the  West  at  twenty- five  years  of  age,  he  was  a  na- 
tional celebrity  at  twenty-eight.  He  outclassed  all,  one 
after  another.  Never  was  he  knocked  out.  Twice  he 
made  a  drawn  battle  of  it — and  more !  Four  times  he 
did  not  get  the  referee's  decision.  But  when  one  care- 
fully reads  again  the  controversy  that  the  master 
evoked  in  the  journals  of  the  day,  one  realises  that  in 
the  case  of  those  meetings  when  his  superiority  was 
disputed  there  were  intrigues  and  dirty  doings  on  which 
it  is  better  not  to  dwell. 

Ten  years,  twenty  years  went  by.  He  continued  to 
be  emperor  of  the  ring,  the  Invincible.  He  still  had  his 
magnificent  presence ;  he  carried  his  huge  shoulders  like 
a  glorious  burden,  and  his  muscles  were  at  least  as  hard 
as  those  of  the  gladiator  who  makes  his  perennial  pose 
in  the  National  Museum. 

After  being  champion  of  the  world,  as  is  well  known, 
for  five  following  years,  he  only  lost  the  title  in  the 
sixth  year  by  his  neglect  of  training.  With  one  voice 
the  sporting  Press  of  two  worlds  declared  that  he 
would  have  done  with  Gus  Jibson  as  with  the  others 


FORCE  ii 

if  he  had  wished.  But  he  preferred  at  that  date  to 
take  it  easy. 

Then  he  had  enough  of  being  always  victor,  or  never 
really  beaten.  Gradually  he  withdrew,  and  when  at 
sixty  he  announced  his  definite  retirement  from  box- 
ing in  favour  of  running  a  tavern  in  New  York,  our 
big  Yerre  was  still  the  Invincible.  Never  had  he  bit- 
ten the  dust  of  the  ring.  Always  had  he  been  stand- 
ing at  the  end  of  each  fight.  He  had  kept  himself  as 
superbly  upright  as  a  statue  that  is  bolted  to  its  pedes- 
tal, the  statue  of  a  smiter  of  men.  Glory  to  our  great 
Otis  Yerre  from  the  nation  and  the  world ! 

The  news  of  his  retirement  was  beginning  to  get 
round  when  J.  S.  Floyd,  the  Canadian  manager,  took 
the  floor  one  fine  day  and  launched  on  him  a  challenge 
that  was  almost  an  insult.  The  blood  of  the  strenu- 
ous champion  boiled,  and  forthwith  he  besought  the 
indispensable  Jim  Sharpe  to  arrange  the  terms  of  a 
meeting  between  himself  and  the  unknown  boxer  in 
whose  name  Floyd  had  just  expressed  himself  in  of- 
fensive terms.  And  the  spectators  howled  with  glee — 
once  more  they  were  to  see  the  great  old  Yerre  in  the 
ring! 

The  adversary  who  thus  forced  the  veteran  to  give 
battle,  a  young  man  called  Dick  M'Cue,  was  the  son 
of  the  man  whom  Yerre  had  once  upon  a  time  so 
knocked  out  that  only  the  trumpets  of  the  Last  Day 
were  likely  to  waken  him. 

At  the  time  of  his  father's  violent  death  Dick  was 
quite  young.  Later  he  learned  the  details  of  the  last 
fight,  and  in  his  childish  heart  there  grew  an  immense 


12  WE  OTHERS 

hate  for  the  formidable  brute  who  had  needlessly  or- 
phaned him,  and  a  stubborn  hunger  for  vengeance. 

Patiently,  modestly  he  trained  himself,  and  avoided 
the  booths  and  towns  where  clamorous  posters  multi- 
plied the  name  of  the  accursed  crack.  He  travelled 
Australia,  England,  and  France,  which  was  beginning 
to  awake  from  its  apathy  of  anti-sport  and  at  last  to 
understand  great  ideas.  He  attained  splendid  and  in- 
telligent strength.  When  he  believed  himself  of  suf- 
ficient might  to  beat  down  the  enemy,  he  went  in 
search  of  him,  and  succeeded  in  bringing  him  back 
into  the  arena  by  the  means  I  have  related. 

In  this  fight — an  unforgettable  one,  by  the  Thun- 
derer ! — the  conditions  were  not  fair  and  equal.  The 
difference  in  age  was  too  great,  there's  no  denying  it. 
Compact  and  solid  as  the  old  oak-tree  showed  him- 
self, perfect  as  was  the  structure  of  the  matchless 
champion's  arms,  the  fight  began  badly  for  him.  A 
great  fear  crept  into  the  hearts  of  the  good  citizens. 
It  was  hardly  likely,  after  all,  that  the  antiquated 
machinery  of  the  old  man  could  stand  against  such 
youthful  vigour.  Was  the  spotless  glory  of  Otis 
Yerre  going  to  be  spoiled  by  a  knock-out? 

No!  The  old  grey  bear  triumphed  again!  I  will 
not  describe  to  you  the  incidents  of  the  most  dramatic 
prize-fight  I  have  ever  seen.  But  I  cannot  help  men- 
tioning the  two  on  his  jaw  in  the  first  round  that  got 
his  adversary  "groggy"  at  once;  nor  the  two  swings 
of  the  second  round — a  right  on  the  ear  and  another 
in  the  stomach;  nor  the  finishing  blow — the  irresistible 
straight  on  the  solar  plexus. 

In  short,  incredible  as  it  may  seem,  Will  Eden  was 


FORCE  13 

put  to  sleep  like  a  nursling — he  had  dropped  his  real 
name  in  view  of  his  avenging  intent — and  hired  him- 
self to  a  hairdresser  somewhere  in  the  provinces. 

After  this  fight  Otis  Yerre  left  the  rope-encircled 
stage  for  ever.  What  an  affecting  scene  was  the  fare- 
well ceremony!  Dan  Simons,  though  he  had  been 
hangman  at  Detroit,  wept.  Yerre  made  a  speech,  and 
we  all  of  us  drank  for  three  days  as  though  finally 

to  banish  thirst. 

***** 

In  the  clean  sunlight  of  April  no  place  is  so  pretty 
as  Hockney  Hill.  There  are  little  paths,  as  straight 
as  though  drawn  on  paper;  glistening  pebbles,  like 
eggs  of  painted  china ;  and  turf  so  fine  that  you  might 
upholster  furniture  with  it. 

A  very  old  man  came  and  sat  down  in  one  of  the 
most  tenderly  green  corners  of  Hockney  Hill. 
Though  colossal,  he  was  all  broken  down,  and  he 
wagged  an  enormous  white  head  that  you  would  take 
at  a  distance  for  the  scalped  skull  of  a  lion.  The 
prodigious  ruin  let  himself  fall  on  a  green  seat,  and 
looked  at  the  fields  and  the  gardens  with  blue  eyes 
that  wept  all  alone  in  the  depth  of  sockets  where  one 
could  bury  his  fist. 

His  attention  was  drawn  by  a  little  object  that 
moved  along  the  path  and  seemed  to  be  drawing  near. 
"He,  he,  ha,  ha,"  stuttered  the  old  man  in  amusement. 

His  eyes,  still  of  use,  discovered  when  the  little  ob- 
ject was  ten  paces  away  that  it  was  a  child  of  five  or 
six  years,  who  held  his  clogs  in  his  hand  as  he  toddled 
along. 

The  child  went  straight  up  to  the  old  man  and 


14  WE  OTHERS 

planted  himself  before  him.  "You  are  Otis  Yerre?" 
he  demanded. 

"My  word,  it's  very  likely !"  laughed  the  jovial  dod- 
derer. 

"Well,"  said  the  child.  "I'm  Bob  M'Cue,  the 
grandson  of  Phil  and  the  son  of  Dick.  And  I'm  go- 
ing to  knock  you  out!" 

So  saying,  he  squared  himself  for  fight. 

Somewhat  abashed,  the  old  champion  half  opened 
a  gleaming  mouth.  He  shut  it  again  to  swallow  a 
painful  swing.  Then,  smack! — he  collected  a  double 
hook.  Painfully  he  lifted  his  huge  and  fleshless  hands 
in  defence;  he  attempted  a  slow  and  uncertain  reply, 
but  he  was  mastered,  hammered,  borne  down  by  the 
diminutive  descendant  of  his  victims — so  thoroughly 
that  he  groaned,  rolled  bleeding  down,  and  lay  with 
his  face  to  the  ground,  motionless. 

Very  gravely  the  child  counted  out  ten.  And  as 
the  ruins  of  the  old  man  made  no  movement,  the  con- 
queror stood  on  tiptoe,  gave  a  little  cockcrow  of  vic- 
tory, and  went  away. 


FATE? 

A  LONG  the  bare  wall  there  was  a  window,  opened 
-**•  upon  the  evening — like  a  picture  that  never  ended. 
There  were  also  the  faces  of  the  two  old  friends,  as 
little  expressive  as  those  of  statues. 

They  were  ending  their  days  side  by  side,  creeping 
into  the  same  corners  of  sunshine  and  shade,  await- 
ing the  hours  in  the  same  rooms;  and  they  talked  now 
and  then. 

"All  is  error.  There  is  only  Fate,"  said  old  Dom- 
inic, by  way  of  conclusion  to  something  he  had  said  or 
thought  he  had  said. 

"No,"  replied  old  Claud;  "Fate  makes  mistakes  too, 
like  the  rest." 

The  first  speaker  turned  and  looked  at  his  com- 
panion with  a  little  compassion  and  a  little  scorn,  but 
no  surprise.  It  was  natural  that  he  should  wander  a 
little,  at  his  age. 

The  other  wagged  his  head  and  the  divided,  emaci- 
ated neck  that  recalled  a  bundle  of  sticks,  and  tapped 
his  knee  with  the  dry  wood  of  his  hand.  "And  there 
are  irreparable  things,"  he  added,  "which  are  re- 
paired." 

"Ah!"  murmured  Dominic.  He  raised  towards 
heaven  his  frail  eyes  in  their  red  caskets,  uneasy  to 
think  that  soon,  perhaps,  he  too  would  talk  nonsense. 

"I  married  Bernardine  once  upon  a  time,"  said 

15 


16  WE  OTHERS 

Claud.  "I  had  almost  forgotten  her.  But  the  other 
day  I  saw  a  girl  who  was  much  like  her.  Therefore 
I  saw  her  again  and  she  returned  wholly  into  my 
thoughts.  I  married  her;  and  two  months  before,  I 
had  shattered  the  head  of  her  father  with  a  shot  from 
a  gun." 

Dominic  was  seized  with  sudden  fear  in  the  idea 
that  his  companion  was  deliriously  dreaming,  and  thus 
he  himself  was  all  alone  in  the  room.  "Eh,  Claud! 
Are  you  asleep?"  he  cried,  trembling  violently. 

"No,"  said  Claud,  "I  am  thinking,  without  sleep- 
ing. I  married  the  girl  all  right,  and  I  sent  her  father 
a  bullet  through  the  forehead,  right  enough.  First  I 
must  say  that  she  adored  her  father  and  that  he  re- 
paid it  in  full." 

"That's  a  long  time  ago,"  said  Dominic,  appeased, 
and  become  again  discreet  as  a  listening  child. 

"Yes,  so  long  that  it  seems  to  me  as  if  I  were  speak- 
ing of  some  one  else,  and  that  all  that  was  before  me." 

All  at  once  the  old  man  resumed  the  fluent  tongue 
of  yore,  discovering  it  like  a  memory : 

"Old  man  Barbeau  was  shrewd  and  honest.  So  he 
did  not  wish  me  to  marry  his  daughter,  because  I  was 
a  good-for-nothing.  I  was  good  for  nothing,  in  truth, 
but  to  love  the  daughter,  and  like  those  who  only  do 
one  thing,  I  did  that  one  well.  It  is  not  possible  to 
be  captivated  by  any  one  as  I  was  by  that  woman,  who 
afterwards  grew  old  and  has  been  dead  so  long — you 
must  listen,  Dominic." 

"Yes,"  said  Dominic,  and  he  drew  nearer. 

"He  was  unwilling  then.  Every  one  about  him 
tried  to  make  him  change  his  mind,  but  he  pretended 


FATE?  17 

not  to  hear,  or  not  to  understand.  They  durst  not 
go  too  far,  for  he  was  irascible  and  strong,  with  a 
wrestler's  arms,  and  hands  as  hard  as  tools.  Myself, 
I  dared  to  speak  to  him  one  day,  straight  to  his  face, 
but  very  softly;  and  he  threw  me  out  of  the  door, 
while  the  beautiful  Bernardine  stuck  herself  in  a  corner 
of  the  kitchen  and  sniffled,  with  her  fists  in  her  eyes. 
I  was  mad  with  impotence  and  shame,  and  I  said,  'I 
will  kill  myself.'  What  mattered  my  life  henceforth, 
when  he  who  held  the  joy  and  the  charm  of  it  was 
perverse  as  the  devil  and  strong  as  an  ox?  Every 
new  overture  ended  but  in  increased  embarrassment 
for  me  in  the  sight  of  others.  It  seemed  to  me  much 
easier  to  have  done  with  life.  I  put  a  bullet  into  my 
gun,  and  having  chosen  a  fine  night — like  the  lover 
that  I  was — I  ran  straight  ahead  into  the  country.  I 
sat  down,  to  do  the  job,  on  the  edge  of  the  road,  near 
the  Briquet  corner.  But  hardly  had  I  finally  grasped 
my  gun  when  I  heard,  and  then  saw,  a  carriage  ap- 
proaching. With  twitching  heart  I  knew  it  for  that 
of  old  Barbeau,  and  I  remembered  that  it  was  indeed 
the  night  of  the  month  when  he  was  wont  to  take  a 
bag  of  money  to  Madame  Templier.  The  horse  was 
walking.  The  carriage  passed  close  to  my  face,  and 
I  saw  him,  bent  forward,  with  his  great  massive  and 
hateful  body,  his  beaky  nose,  his  big  pointed  beard, 
his  savage  black  outline,  like  that  of  a  negro  king. 
To  see  thus  sprawling  before  me  the  brute  who  was 
driving  me  to  the  worst  extremity,  filled  me  with  un- 
speakable rage.  I  rose  with  a  jump,  took  aim  at  his 
forehead,  and  fired.  In  a  lump  and  without  a  cry  he 
plunged  head  foremost  and  fell  on  the  horse's  rump, 


i8  WE  OTHERS 

which  took  fright  and  galloped  off,  left  the  road  at 
the  corner,  and  threw  himself,  fifty  paces  further, 
right  into  the  Loviots'  farm.  I  ran  away,  ran  away 
as  fast  as  I  could,  dizzy,  stunned,  ruined.  And  I  had 
already  got  a  long  way  in  my  mad  hurry  when  I  be- 
gan to  understand  what  I  had  done.  But  no  less  des- 
perately spurred  for  that,  I  rushed  over  the  fields  and 
woods,  as  I  remember,  all  the  same,  as  if  it  was  yes- 
terday, I  who  have  forgotten  nearly  all  of  the  past, 
the  awful  thickets  I  won  through  that  night,  all  the 
tragical  barriers  I  upset  to  get  by.  Scarcely  did  the 
certainty  that  I  should  kill  myself  when  I  got  home 
put  a  little  calm  and  order  into  the  whirlwind  of  my 
thoughts.  But  now  I  saw  that  my  accursed  flight  had 
taken  me  to  their  house — the  one  that  he  had  just  left, 
but  where  she  was.  When  /  knew  it,  I  was  too  near 
to  resist  the  temptation  to  see  her  again — to  see  her 
again  through  her  window,  looking  out,  vaguely  re- 
vealed in  the  shadow  by  the  reflection  from  the  fire! 
I  followed  the  wall  along,  panting  and  rustling  as  lit- 
tle as  possible,  and  turned  the  corner.  Ah,  the  win- 
dow was  open,  and  she  was  there,  with  her  arms  on 
the  sill!  She  was  there,  angelically  pale,  and  it 
seemed  to  me  that  something  had  even  made  her  ra- 
diant. Yes,  she  was  smiling!  She  saw  me  standing 
a  few  paces  from  her,  uttered  a  little  cry  and  clapped 
her  hands;  she  beamed  still  more,  and  smiled  more 
sweetly ! 

*  'Heaven  has  sent  you/  she  said.  'Father  con- 
sents! He  saw  how  I  was  suffering,  and  suddenly 
he  said  yes,  to  cure  me.  Before  he  went  out,  just  now, 
he  said  yes,  and  he  laughed!' 


FATE?  19 

"I  could  not  even  cry  out.  I  was  choked  and  blind. 
I  do  not  know  how  I  recoiled,  how  I  crept  from  her 
gaze,  how  I  escaped.  I  only  remember  the  moment  I 
arrived  home,  one  groping  hand  in  front,  the  other 
clenched  on  my  gun — the  only  treasure  left  to  me  in 
the  world!  In  the  kitchen,  without  even  making  a 
light,  without  even  opening  my  eyes,  I  sought  and 
found  the  kind  cartridge,  and  loaded  the  gun.  But  I 
was  so  borne  down  by  the  cruelty  of  the  Fate  that  was 
undoing  me — and  how  terribly ! — without  allowing  me 
the  time  to  know  that  it  had  saved  me,  that  I  no  longer 
had  mettle  even  in  destroying  myself.  Is  that  why 
the  bullet  missed?  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  felt  only  the 
scorch  of  the  blast,  and  only  was  a  tuft  of  hair  shot 
away.  I  reeled  and  fell  to  the  ground,  believing  my- 
self dead — but  alive. 

"I  awoke  in  the  full  light  of  noonday,  and  came  to 
myself  groaning,  with  a  booming  in  my  ears.  But 
there  was  a  big  noise  outside  as  well — a  tumultuous 
swarming  of  people.  And  just  then  John  knocked  on 
my  door  with  his  fist — he  was  my  elder  brother  by 
several  years,  and  died  of  old  age.  With  another 
stroke  he  opened  the  door,  and  putting  his  face  in,  he 
cried,  'Old  Barbeau  was  murdered  last  night  on  the 
road.* 

'  'Ah !'  I  cried,  livid,  recoiling  to  the  far  end  of  the 
room. 

"  Those  two  gipsies  of  ill  omen/  he  added,  'they 
were  found  by  the  bag  that  they'd  carried  off. 
They've  told  everything!  They  attacked  the  carriage 
at  the  end  of  the  village,  close  to  his  home.  The  old 
man  got  ten  knife  wounds  in  the  back.  He  was  killed 


20  WE  OTHERS 

outright,  and  there's  a  pool  of  blood.  Then  they  put 
him  back  on  his  seat,  and  let  the  horse  go  on,  walking. 
A  long  time  after,  at  the  Briquet  corner,  the  horse 
threw  himself  into  the  Loviots'  farm/ 

"I  had  not  killed  him!  For  he  was  already  dead! 
You  cannot  murder  a  dead  man.  Fate  was  in  it,  you 
see,  but  she  made  a  mistake  that  night/' 


IMMOBILITY 

old  charwoman,  who  had  gone  to  the  Micha- 
-*-  Ions  that  morning  as  usual,  came  out  again  at 
once  as  if  she  had  been  thrown  out.  She  fell  on  her 
knees  in  the  middle  of  the  village  street  with  horror- 
stricken  face,  and  a  sort  of  cry  in  her  throat  that  she 
could  neither  swallow  nor  utter. 

Ah,  it  was  not  without  cause  that  she  had  foundered 
so  completely  in  the  street,  the  fat  old  charwoman 
whom  we  had  to  pass  round  before  we  could  enter 
the  house !  Of  big  Michalon  we  could  at  first  see  only 
his  long  outstretched  legs,  emerging  from  the  dark- 
ness under  the  table,  and  the  vast  boot-soles  that  stood 
vertically  on  the  floor-stones.  You  would  never  be- 
lieve how  terrifying  those  immense  soles  were  to  see 
upright  on  their  heels,  standing  up  from  the  ground 
like  two  posts  in  the  half-light  of  that  basement  room 
whose  corners  were  tense  with  darkness. 

We  stooped,  we  extended  ourselves  towards  the 
space  under  the  table,  towards  the  dread  nest  of 
shadow.  The  body  of  the  giant  lay  there,  black  as 
mould,  on  stones  that  were  smeared  with  a  new  red 
lacquer.  The  face?  It  was  hidden  by  a  folded  arm, 
of  which  the  hand  trailed  and  soaked  on  the  pavement. 

They  lifted  this  arm  to  reveal  the  face.  The  great 
dead  arm  trembled  in  the  hand  that  gripped  it. 

"He's  not  stiff  yet,"  they  said. 

21 


22  WE  OTHERS 

Assuredly,  the  crime  was  recent — quite  near  to  us. 
We  looked  awkwardly  at  the  door,  with  a  confused 
vision  of  the  murderer  in  our  eyes — that  frightful 
visitor!  Then  our  looks  returned  together-— for  we 
were  united  in  a  sort  of  infirmity — to  the  face,  the  face 
which  gradually,  as  we  grew  used  to  the  half-light, 
appeared  at  our  feet. 

We  could  not  see  it  clearly.  Ah,  my  friends,  that 
was  because  it  had  shape  no  longer !  It  had  been  ham- 
mered, crushed.  Flat-nosed  and  broken,  it  looked  like 
the  face  of  a  lion.  It  shone  all  over  when  we  brought 
a  lighted  candle  near. 

It  indicated  no  terror  or  rage  or  anguish, — nothing. 
It  was  too  far  destroyed  to  express  agony.  We  could 
not  know  what  sort  of  outcry  or  groan  had  prolonged 
the  black  opening  of  the  mouth. 

We  turned  away,  then,  from  the  man  changed  into 
a  monster. 

"The  other  one?"  some  one  hazarded. 

The  other  ?  He  was  there,  for  certain,  since  he  was 
unable  to  stir. 

We  saw  him  indeed,  with  his  ghastly  face,  in  his 
usual  corner,  glued  to  the  back  of  the  armchair,  his 
hands  hanging  like  rags  on  the  arms. 

The  paralytic!  This  old  man,  who  had  come  to 
spend  near  his  only  relation  the  rest  of  a  life  lived  else- 
where, had  been  stricken  with  disease  a  year  or  more. 
He  had  vegetated  for  a  year,  totally  helpless,  rooted  in 
that  armchair. 

The  little  life  left  to  him  was  tenacious.  His  feeble 
breath  remained  fast  fixed  in  some  corners  of  his 
frame,  and  the  secret,  obstinate  pit-pat  of  his  heart 


IMMOBILITY  23 

kept  time  with  the  oozing  of  his  gums  upon  his  lips. 
A  bluish  gleam  floated  in  his  eye,  and  now  and  then 
a  look  seemed  to  liquefy  in  the  middle  of  his  flabby, 
creamy  face.  He  saw,  and  perhaps  he  thought;  but 
to  move  one  single  finger,  that  was  forbidden  him! 
In  the  hands  of  the  charwoman  he  was  like  an  empty 
coat. 

"Ah,"  I  murmured,  "he  saw,  and  he  knows!" 

"That's  true!"  said  the  others,  grimacing. 

Imagine  the  horror  of  the  butchery  done  quite  close 
to  him  who  was  no  more  use  than  a  lifeless  thing  to 
protect  his  good  companion,  his  benevolent  relation! 
Who  knows  even  if  the  assassin  had  seen  him — this 
half-dead  man,  enshrouded  but  unburied? 

Such  were  the  nightmare  glimpses,  the  disturbing 
theories  that  assailed  us  all — for  meanwhile  the  whole 
village  had  come  running  upon  our  heels. 

Then  came  the  police,  for  the  pursuit  of  the  mur- 
derer. 

It  was  not  difficult  to  find  the  guilty  one.  Taking 
no  precaution,  he  had  allowed  accusing  clues  to  remain. 
Undoubtedly  he  was  a  brute.  So  at  two  in  the  after- 
noon, with  no  hesitation  in  their  quest,  the  police  sur- 
prised him  on  the  edge  of  a  spinney,  bound  him  and 
led  him  away.  A  brute  indeed  he  was,  with  his  ro- 
tund trunk  like  a  bundle  of  dirty  linen,  his  head  brist- 
ling with  yellow  hair,  and  a  beard  as  hard  as  a  boar's 
bristles. 

The  savage  tried  clumsily  to  simulate  insanity  by 
means  of  a  series  of  ape-like  antics  and  little  inarticu- 
late cries.  But  pressed  with  pitiless  proofs,  he  took 
refuge  in  silence  and  lowered  the  couch-grass  mass  of 


24  WE  OTHERS 

his  rough  head.  When  they  showed  him  the  blood- 
bespattered  stick  he  put  the  finishing  touch  to  the  mat- 
ter by  losing  countenance,  and  they  saw  his  slug-like 
lips  tremble  among  the  quills  of  his  beard.  Yet  he 
confessed  nothing,  and  still  less  agreed  to  tell,  in  spite 
of  police  wiles  and  cajolery,  where  he  had  hidden  the 
iron-bound  casket  which,  as  everybody  knew,  con- 
tained the  money. 

However,  our  poor  big  Michalon  would  have  been 
quickly  avenged  if  suspicion  had  not  fallen  the  same 
day,  and  been  followed  by  multiplying  evidence,  on  a 
gipsy  who  had  been  at  our  door  on  the  fatal  night,  at 
an  hour  which  coincided  with  the  speculations  of  jus- 
tice. 

The  other  man  was  an  honest  idiot.  Opinion  went 
right-about-face  in  his  favour.  But  things  muddled 
themselves  so  far  and  so  well  that  they  could  never 
say  which  of  the  two  had  robbed  and  killed,  though 
confident  that  it  was  one  or  the  other.  Of  the  iron- 
bound  casket  there  was  no  trace!  Willy-nilly,  the 
magistrate  had  to  get  out  of  it  by  declaring  "no  case" 
generally. 

As  for  me,  this  uncertainty  touching  the  criminal 
vexed  me  curiously.  I  took  the  matter  to  heart,  cap- 
tivated first  by  a  desire  and  then  by  a  passion,  to  know 
the  truth. 

But  neither  my  willingness  nor  my  personal  en- 
quiries brought  me  any  result,  and  like  the  magistrate 
I  was  forced  to  be  content  to  abandon  the  mysterious 
problem. 

I  did  this  with  such  an  ill  grace  that  my  disposition 
and  even  my  health  suffered.  I  became  nervous! 


IMMOBILITY  25 

And  that  accounts  for  the  careless  folly  which  in- 
duced me  a  few  weeks  later,  one  night  when  I  was 
driving  home,  to  flog  my  horse,  the  skittish  Pierrot — 
and  a  storm  raging,  too ! 

What  had  to  happen  did  happen,  in  the  last  half- 
mile,  and  in  sight  of  the  houses.  Pierrot  bolted.  I 
spare  you  the  details  of  how  that  runaway  horse 
dashed  into  the  narrow  streets  in  the  midst  of  the 
dense  darkness,  of  whirling  water,  and  lightning 
flashes. 

In  bewilderment  I  grazed  along  walls,  and  a  breath 
of  their  dreadful  nearness  reached  me  as  we  sped. 
Should  I  jump  out?  Suddenly  a  frightful  shock  was 
followed  by  a  light  that  burst  forth.  It  seemed  to 
me  that  a  wall  had  been  rent  asunder,  and  before  I 
rolled  in  the  mud  /  saw! 

I  lay  on  the  ground,  gasping,  shuddering,  dis- 
tracted— not  by  reason  of  the  shock  or  the  danger,  nor 
of  Death  which  had  touched  me  and  passed  by;  but 
because  of  what  I  had  seen! 

The  wall,  as  I  said,  gaped  open.  The  shaft  of  the 
carriage  had  smashed  in  the  shutter  of  a  little  bolted 
window,  and  through  that  gaping  wound  my  glance 
had  rushed  into  a  room. 

I  saw  a  man,  standing  and  stooping  over  an  iron- 
bound  casket,  in  which  his  hands  were  stirring  gold 
coins.  I  saw  the  big  back  of  that  man  tremble  at  the 
crash  of  the  shattered  shutter;  I  saw  one  hand  go  out 
towards  a  gnarled  stick  that  I  knew.  Above  all,  I  saw 
the  ghastly  face  that  had  borrowed  the  tawny  gleam  of 
the  gold — and  yes,  the  rush  of  the  gale  did  not  put  the 
lamp  out  soon  enough  to  hide  that  face  from  me. 


26  WE  OTHERS 

It  was  the  paralytic.     It  was  the  murderer! 

It  was  the  strange,  the  supernatural  shammer,  plot- 
ter of  the  most  tangled  and  hellish  of  crimes — a  crime 
that  I  shall  unravel  by  degrees,  but  whose  bewildering 
riddle  I  possess  at  last.  It  was  the  monster  whose 
imperturbable  fortitude  and  patience  had  played  for 
a  year  the  sinister  role  of  a  lifeless  thing!  And  for  a 
moment,  stunned  by  a  plethora  of  thoughts,  I  lay  para- 
lysed— because  he  was  there,  so  near — he  whose  im- 
mobility was  victorious,  and  reigned  like  that  of  idols, 
like  that  of  the  earth. 


SCARLET  THREAD 

FOR  all  those  reasons,  and  for  many  others/'  con- 
tinued the  foul  person,  "I  had  decided  to  kill  that 
rich  old  lady." 

With  eyes  that  were  streaked  with  alcoholic  lines 
he  regarded  his  huge  hands,  hooked  and  grey,  planted 
before  him  like  two  crabs.  Then  our  ignoble  speaker 
went  on : 

"Her  name  ?  I  won't  tell  you  it — not  at  all  because 
I'm  afraid,  for  by  now  the  term  of  the  warrant  has 
amply  passed — but  because  I  don't  remember  it.  Any- 
way, let  her  be  called  Mother  So-and-so  or  Madame 
Thingumbob,  it's  none  the  less  true  that  she  was  as 
rich  as  I  was  poor,  that  she  was  putting  by  much  more 
than  I  was  running  into  debt  for  in  the  village,  that 
she  was  as  stingy  in  her  food  as  I  wasn't  in  drink ;  in 
short,  that  there  was,  on  purpose,  too  much  differ- 
ence for  it  to  last  between  this  independent  lady,  over- 
whelmed by  old  age,  and  the  young  workman  without 
a  job  that  I  was. 

"So  it  was  necessary,  then,  for  me  to  do  away  with 
her.  She  lived  in  the  big  house,  which  still  exists  such 
as  it  is,  opposite  the  miserable  stone  hut  where  I  was 
burrowing  before  the  affair  in  question.  She  went 
to  bed  every  day  at  seven  o'clock  except  in  summer, 
when  she  stayed  up  till  half-past.  Infallibly  she  got 
up  at  four,  and  that  suddenly,  like  a  jack-in-the-box, 

27 


28  WE  OTHERS 

and  began  to  rove  about  the  house  in  the  black  dark, 
the  grey,  or  the  dull  pink,  according  to  the  season. 

"Her  hoard  was  hidden  in  a  rotten  sabot,  mixed  with 
other  sabots  and  rubbish  that  encumbered  the  window- 
less  pantry  that  led  out  of  her  room.  An  unheard-of 
chance,  a  heavenly  miracle,  had  let  me  know  about  the 
sabot.  From  then  it  was  natural  that  the  idea  of  tak- 
ing that  prize  should  spur  me  on,  even  though  I  should, 
in  passing,  put  the  objectionable  old  lady  definitely  out 
of  action. 

"This  so  simple  and  humane  idea,  one  which  all  of 
you  would  have  had  in  my  place,  I  remained  a  long 
time  without  realising,  I  confess.  Although  I  pleaded 
guilty  every  time  I  saw  the  vixen  go  by  with  her  yel- 
low hair,  her  yellowish  face,  and  a  trailing  leg  hitched 
behind  the  other — so  used  up  and  thin  that  one  won- 
dered by  what  chance  her  bones  still  hung  together-4—, 
still  I  did  not  act. 

"One  afternoon,  however,  when  Pour  sin  had  called 
to  me  from  his  shop  door  that  he'd  take  me  to  court 
for  that  everlasting  trifle  of  thirty-three  and  a  half 
francs,  the  afternoon  when  I  went  to  dig  Blanchissot's 
asparagus  bed  (that's  what  he  was  called),  uneasiness 
came  over  me.  What  if  the  old  woman  died  of 
senility,  and  the  heirs  publicly  stole  the  hoard!  Or 
if  some  one  else  adopted  my  plan,  and,  more  prudent 
than  I,  did  what  I  ought  to  have  done!  A  slight 
trembling  tickled  my  spine.  Although  alone,  I  snarled 
aloud,  and  resolved  to  do  it  that  night. 

"At  ten  o'clock,  when  it  was  as  dark  as  inside  a 
pudding,  I  got  up.  I  put  on  two  jackets,  one  on  top 
of  the  other,  and  two  pairs  of  trousers,  shoved  my 


SCARLET  THREAD  29 

knife  and  my  pipe  in  my  pocket,  and  took  my  lantern 
under  my  arm.  Then  I  opened  the  door  and  crossed 
the  road,  with  no  end  of  precaution,  for  it  was  so 
dark — I  think  I've  told  you  that  already — you  couldn't 
poke  your  finger  in  your  eye. 

"I  reached  the  enemy  house.  My  foot  stumbled 
against  the  step,  my  hand  touched  the  wood  of  the 
door  and  then  groped,  flitting  like  a  bat,  up  to  the 
latch.  The  bolt  was  shot,  and  resisted  with  all  its 
might.  But  I  knew  that  by  leaning  on  the  door  one 
got  a  half-open  line  of  access.  Through  this  slender 
cleft  the  point  of  a  knife  would  find  room  to  penetrate 
and  get  a  hold  on  the  staple. 

"Thanks  to  this  method,  I  opened  the  door  of  the 
house  where  the  odious  old  woman  kept  the  money. 
I  also  broke  the  point  of  my  knife  on  the  job,  and  it 
fell  with  a  little  sharp  noise  on  the  floor-tiles.  I  did 
not  linger  to  pick  it  up,  but  put  back  the  knife  in  my 
pocket.  I  shut  the  door,  trying  with  all  the  might 
of  my  muscles  to  go  slowly  and  lightly,  to  make  no 
more  noise  than  the  clock  was  making,  with  its  death- 
like breathing. 

"Slowly,  with  one  hand  outstretched,  like  a  blind 
ghost,  I  advanced  towards  the  fireplace.  I  knew  that 
the  infernal  old  lady's  matches  were  above,  in  a  round 
tin  box.  I  grasped  them  with  a  shudder,  as  if  already 
I  was  fingering  the  first  of  the  treasure  that  lay  hidden 
there,  protected  by  the  creature's  body.  I  lit  the 
lantern.  Then  I  slid  the  tin  box,  which  impeded  my 
hands,  into  my  pocket. 

"I  steered  towards  the  door  of  the  bedroom,  not 
without  a  collision  that  made  my  pipe  fall  from  my 


30  WE  OTHERS 

overfull  pocket.  I  went  into  the  room  with  the  lan- 
tern and  the  knife. 

"It  was  a  quick  job — two  minutes  perhaps.  Then 
I  got  at  the  precious  rubbish  of  which  I  had  thought 
for  months  as  other  people  think  of  heaven.  When 
I  pulled  the  bundle  of  notes  out  of  the  dirty  old  sabot 
and  the  heap  of  old  lumber  scattered  and  bristling 
there,  it  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  a  wizard,  working 
a  miracle,  and  bringing  something  back  to  life! 

"I  lost  no  time  in  wondering,  but  recrossed  the  bed- 
room. I  looked  at  the  bed.  I  saw — I  saw — in  short, 
I  was  reassured.  I  passed  my  hand  over  my  moist 
forehead.  The  movement  made  my  cap  fall,  almost 
at  the  foot  of  i  the  bed.  Following  it  with  my  eyes, 
I  saw  my  knife,  lying  on  the  floor.  I  had  let  it  fall 
inadvertently,  just  before.  So  it  was  beached  on  the 
floor  in  the  middle  of — of  what  had  run  down. 
Quickly  I  turned  away,  quitted  all  that,  regained  the 
outer  room,  and  skirted  the  walls  and  the  fireplace, 
where  the  deep  ashes  muffled  the  sound  of  my  steps, 
although  I  had  on  my  big  iron-shod  boots — so  big 
that  people  made  game  of  them  in  the  village. 

"The  door — it  was  so  dark  that  I  bumped  the  wall 
near  the  threshold,  and  broke  the  glass  of  my  lantern. 
The  harsh  noise  of  the  falling  glass  set  me  trembling 
and  affected  me  so  that,  a  moment  later,  with  a  nerv- 
ous movement,  I  dropped  the  lantern  itself  on  the 
road,  which  I  had  reached  at  last. 

"A  few  steps — and  I  was  at  home.  I  pushed  the 
door — never  fast  shut,  however — and  without  even 
taking  the  trouble  to  close  it,  I  undressed.  With 
feverish  haste  I  threw  my  boots,  trousers  and  jacket 


SCARLET  THREAD  31 

in  a  corner,  and  I  took  easily  understandable  pains 
not  to  touch  a  stain  that  the  coat  had  on  one  side. 

"That  done,  I  went  barefoot  and  buried  the  nice 
soft  notes  in  Blanchissot's  asparagus  bed — there  was 
only  a  grass  meadow  to  cross. 

"An  hour  later  I  was  snoring — although  all  the 
cpld  in  space  blew  on  me  through  the  open  door. 

"And  then,  my  good,  my  excellent  sirs,"  the  in- 
famous brute  concluded,  "all  came  off  as  I  had  in- 
tended. 

"Justice  arrived  in  the  form  of  a  person  got  up 
entirely  in  black.  And  this  man,  who  looked  like  a 
widower,  had  a  little  gleam  in  his  eye  when  he  picked 
the  knife  up  on  the  spot  and  they  told  him  it  was  mine. 
He  showed  agitation  when  the  ownership  of  the  cap 
was  also  made  clear  to  him  by  the  spectators.  He 
started  when  he  learned  that  the  pipe  was  also  mine. 
But  he  frowned  when  he  knew  the  origin  of  the  foot- 
prints left  in  the  ashes — 'Decidedly  they're  his  big 
boots!'  He  shrugged  his  shoulders  nervously  when 
they  found  on  the  road  between  our  two  houses  the 
carcass  of  my  lantern,  and  uttered  an  ill-tempered  ex- 
clamation when  he  ascertained  that  the  door  of  my 
house  had  remained  wide  open  all  the  night. 

"He  altered  at  that  moment,  and  a  sneering  smile 
adorned  the  rigid  wooden  lines  of  his  face.  He 
nodded  his  head  with  an  understanding  air  when  they 
pulled  my  blood-stained  clothes  from  behind  my  bed, 
and  murmured,  'To  be  sure!'  When  the  round  box 
rolled  on  the  floor  he  said,  Td  have  bet  on  it!'  At 
the  first  words  which  I  stammered,  with  my  face 
drawn  with  fright  as  though  by  threads,  to  tell  him 


32  WE  OTHERS 

I  thought  I  had  dreamed  that  some  people  had  come 
into  my  room  during  the  night,  he  looked  at  me  with 
all  the  kindness  his  ugly  face  could  manage,  and  said 
to  me,  'I  knew  it,  my  friend !' 

"In  short,  I  had  piled  up  so  much  obvious  evidence 
against  me  that  I  had  cleared  myself!  He  who  tries 
to  prove  too  much  proves  nothing!  In  life,  one 
should  know  how  to  make  use  of  proverbs,  which  at 
bottom  are  very  well  done. 

"A  single  little  imprudence  would  have  marked  me 
out  as  the  culprit.  Ten  huge  imprudences  indicated 
me  positively  to  all  as  the  man  who  had  not  done  it. 
By  dint  of  blackening  myself,  I  was  turned  into  the 
unfortunate  victim  of  barbarous  plots,  sewn  together 
with  scarlet  thread  as  the  man  in  mourning  said. 

"That  was  my  way.  Whether  new  or  old,  it's 
good.  I  make  a  present  of  it  to  those  imaginative 
people  who  are  tempted  by  adventure,  or  to  those  who 
are  satisfied  to  set  up  their  schemes  in  silly  old  books, 
and  devote  their  lucrative  ideas  to  business." 


THE  WATCHMAN 

THE  palings  stretched  out  and  out,  like  innumer- 
able figures  of  men,  around  the  future  section 
of  the  future  town.  For  they  had  decided — up  there 
or  down  there,  at  New  York  or  Montreal,  I  don't 
know  where — to  make  a  town  there. 

While  waiting  for  this  tract  of  prairie  (where  old- 
style  farmers  smoked  their  pipes  up  to  the  last  min- 
ute) to  be  changed  into  a  new  town,  with  its  branch  of 
the  National  Bank,  its  Chamber  of  Commerce,  its 
two  universities,  its  four  cinemas,  and  its  five  Dis- 
senting Chapels,  the  huge  slice  of  Canadian  territory 
presented  an  intermediate  appearance.  It  was  a 
marsh,  a  dirty  marsh,  crowded  with  building-stone, 
prickly  with  scaffolding,  perforated  by  gas-lamps  with 
the  diameter  of  a  well ;  here  the  world  of  work-people 
employed  by  the  company  swarmed  and  waded. 

I  was  one  of  them.  Bill  Nogg,  Sam  Sharp,  and 
Joe  McColl  were,  too;  and  Jep  Joyce  as  well,  though 
he  was  not  so  all  the  time,  on  account  of  the  dram  of 
alcohol  that  fell  on  his  fate,  and  of  the  adventure  to 
which  we  are  coming  without  seeming  to,  just  as  in 
life. 

In  course  of  time,  at  the  season  of  the  two  gen- 
eral meetings  of  the  Company — they  talked  about 
those  meetings,  but  I  never  understood  what  they 
were — we  worked  day  and  night.  But  in  the  early 

33 


34  WE  OTHERS 

days  every  gang  left  the  building-yard  at  nightfall, 
and  it  remained  through  the  night  as  empty  as  the 
tavern  was  on  Sundays  and  the  chapels  on  week-days. 

Every  night  Mr.  Pew,  the  man  with  the  terrible 
spectacles,  placed  a  watchman  in  the  yard,  arming 
him  with  peremptory  instructions  and  two  revolvers, 
huge  enough  to  machine-gun  a  village. 

Nothing  was  more  necessary  than  this  watchman; 
for  the  yard,  with  its  alleys  and  holes  and  corners, 
might  easily  have  become  a  lair  or  den;  and  besides, 
the  copper  cable  heaped  up  there  stood  for  a  market- 
able value  that  we  did  not  fail  to  appreciate. 

Without  wishing  to  disparage  ourselves  wantonly, 
I  must  tell  you  that  we  were  all  merry  fellows  of 
dubious  standing,  either  because  they  knew  nothing 
of  our  antecedents,  or  because  they  knew  them  too 
well.  You  will  understand  that  you  could  not  demand 
certificates  of  integrity,  signed  by  the  Pope  or  General 
Booth,  from  gentlemen  who  bore  a  burden  of  hard 
labour  and  were  thousands  of  miles  from  the  nearest 
centre  of  civilisation.  It  was  necessary  to  rely  on 
citizens  who  had  some  motive  for  remaining  remote 
from  the  said  centre. 

However,  there  were  among  us,  by  the  way  of  con- 
trast, two  men  who  were  integrity  and  honesty  incar- 
nate; Joshua  Simpson,  and  that  Jep  Joyce  of  whom  I 
told  you  just  now  in  a  way,  I  hope  at  least,  that  excited 
your  curiosity. 

So  Mr.  Pew,  the  spectacled  under-manager,  had 
chosen  Jep  at  once  as  night  watchman,  and  every 
evening,  after  he  had  installed  him,  he  came  away 
gleefully  striking  the  muddy  ground  with  his  stick,  his 


THE  WATCHMAN  35 

bat-like  cloak  flapping  widely  in  the  wind,  his  owl- 
like  face  grinning  with  content. 

Mr.  Pew,  who  hardly  ever  slept,  used  to  return  in 
vain  to  the  yard,  no  matter  what  the  time,  slipping 
about  in  the  mud,  and  poke  his  pointed  nose  over  the 
top  of  the  palings  or  into  the  crevice  between  two 
boards — Jep  was  there  at  his  post  in  the  shadows, 
standing,  head  erect,  his  two  great  revolvers  tugging 
at  his  arms  like  bundles. 

Then  over  the  physiognomy  of  Mr.  Pew  there  de- 
fined itself  a  devilish  grimace,  which  was  no  other 
than  a  smile. 

From  the  month  of  May  to  the  month  of  July  brave 
Jep  did  not  cease  to  be  the  faultless  watchman.  We 
used  to  get  a  glimpse  of  him  in  the  evening,  when  he 
woke  up.  What  a  bearing  the  chap  had!  Never  a 
strong  word  nor  a  sign  of  obscenity.  I'll  be  damned 
if  he  knew  where  the  Godmother's  Arms  was!  If 
you  offered  him  a  glass,  he  politely  refused — like 
Joshua  in  that,  who  seized  the  chance  of  such  invita- 
tions to  turn  up  his  eyeballs  and  talk  to  you  about  his 
mother  and  sister. 

Now,  one  night  in  July  Mr.  Pew,  whose  meagre 
body  was  an  untiring  machine,  approached  by  moon- 
light the  west  fence  of  the  yard,  among  the  gleaming 
puddles. 

The  poor  fellow  was  obliged  to  grip  the  stakes  with 
those  hands  that  were  dry  as  his  nails!  Outlined 
against  the  bluish  sky,  on  the  top  of  a  pile  of  squared 
stones,  our  Jep  was  doing  a  reeling  dance! 

He  was  drunk !  How  could  he,  he  who  had  till  then 
been  so  impenetrable  by  alcohol  of  any  sort  or  colour, 


36  WE  OTHERS 

how  could  he  have  yielded  to  the  general  affection  for 
that  devil  of  a  drug?  It  was  a  mystery.  The  fact  is, 
however,  that  he  was  colossally,  phantasmagorically 
tipsy. 

The  old  boy  vibrated,  summoned  up  his  strength, 
tightened  the  strings  of  his  tendons,  hurled  himself  to 
the  gate  and  through  it,  climbed  the  limestone  hillock 
at  the  top  of  which  the  other  man  continued  his  mar- 
ionette dance  under  the  pallor  of  the  sky,  seized  Jep, 
turned  him  and  toppled  him  down,  dragged  him  out 
of  the  yard,  and  threw  the  heavy  mass  into  a  rut. 

And  Jep  forthwith  went  to  sleep  in  the  rut,  bliss- 
ful, and  gazing  at  the  moon. 

Mr.  Pew,  all  a-flutter,  his  thin  grey  cloak  flapping 
about  him,  ran  to  the  huts  where  we  lodged,  and  after 
several  thumps  on  the  shutters,  with  scolding  and 
persuasive  clamour,  took  Joshua  away. 

He  established  Joshua  in  the  yard,  after  having 
rapidly  explained  how  great  a  hop  Jep  had  become, 
and  put  into  his  hand  a  revolver — the  other  having 
doubtless  fallen  among  the  stone  blocks  at  the  time  of 
Jep's  expulsion. 

This  done,  Mr.  Pew  went  to  bed.  Ah,  his  was  a 
sterling  nature,  and  you  may  look  where  you  will,  my 
dear  friends,  to  find  his  equal,  now  that  the  old  box 
of  tricks  is  broken  and  its  fragments  confined  by  fate 
at  the  bottom  of  a  coffin ! 

All  this  that  I  have  related  happened  pell-mell  at 
nine  p.m.  Towards  midnight  the  rut  where  Jep  was 
piled  up  stirred  and  groaned. 

It  was  Jep,  awaking.  The  cold  was  intense.  The 
peculiar  thing  about  drunkards  who  are  sobered  by 


THE  WATCHMAN  37 

cold  is,  as  you  know,  that  they  cannot  recall  the  cir- 
cumstances which  accompanied  the  period  of  intoxica- 
tion. With  haggard  face  he  yawned,  and  if  one  may 
say  so,  he  yawned  with  his  eyes  as  well.  He  looked 
about  him,  saw  nothing,  lifted  his  right  fist  and  found 
his  revolver,  lifted  his  left  fist  to  his  face  and  verified 
that  it  held  no  revolver;  then  he  felt  a  dull  pain  in 
his  back. 

A  moment  later,  extended  and  erect,  he  remem- 
bered suddenly  that  he  ought  to  have  been,  at  this 
hour  of  the  night,  in  the  yard  and  protecting  it.  His 
memory  whispered  nothing  more  to  him. 

He  trudged  towards  the  gate  contrived  in  the  pal- 
ings, almost  smelling  the  way,  for  the  moon  had 
drowned  itself  somewhere.  He  sought  his  key,  en- 
tered, and  with  the  weapon  in  his  fist  resumed  his 
vigil  as  if  nothing  had  happened,  rigid  and  alert  as  a 
snare ! 

The  top  of  his  head  was  still  a  bit  turbid,  befogged 
by  a  sort  of  bad  dream  gone  away;  but  the  conception 
of  his  professional  duty  was  so  riveted  in  the  brain 
and  heart  of  the  man  that  before  he  became  himself 
again  he  became  the  perfect  watchman! 

And  now,  quite  naturally,  behold  our  Jep  as  he  sud- 
denly starts  and  outstretches  his  neck  towards  a 
shadow  that  moves,  down  there,  at  the  foot  of  the 
hillock  of  building-stone.  He  himself  was  planted 
like  a  lighthouse  just  at  the  end  of  the  storehouse  of 
iron  girders.  He  cried,  "Who  goes  there  ?"  Echo 
replied  precisely,  "Who  goes  there?"  and  in  the  black 
silence  there  were  two  little  clicks,  the  kind  produced 
in  opening  the  locks  of  certain  revolvers. 


38  WE  OTHERS 

Three  days  later,  while  we  were  taking  poor  Joshua 
and  poor  Jep  to  the  cemetery  side  by  side — just  as 
they  had  been  picked  up — we  said  to  ourselves  that 
one  may  sometimes  be  a  criminal  and  yet  not  be  a 
criminal,  and  that  there  are  accursed  complications  in 
life! 

But  above  all,  my  companions  and  I,  we  who  were 
but  lately  acquainted  with  the  convict-prison  and  other 
places,  it  grieved  us  to  be  condemned  never  again  to 
see  Joshua  and  Jep.  Their  eyes  were  so  frank  and 
honest  that  we  had  never  looked  upon  anything  here 
below  more  beautiful  than  their  faces. 


BLIND  JUSTICE 

A  SSUREDLY,"  said  J.  K.  Alec  Columbus,  "I'm 
**•  no  great  shakes.  Without  being,  properly  speak- 
ing, a  rascal,  I've  been  so  much  associated  with  rough 
people  in  the  Klondyke  country  that  I  can't  swear  I've 
always  been  exactly  a  saint.  Bah !  In  our  trade,  ad- 
venturers and  hunters,  scattered  by  the  winds,  isolated 
in  solitude  without  end,  and  chopped  up  with  cold, 
little  slips  don't  matter.  And  doesn't  it  seem  very 
nice,  nevertheless,  to  be  administering  the  laws  of 
good  old  Britannia  in  a  country  hooked  somewhere 
up  there  to  the  Arctic  Circle,  where  the  trams  are 
drawn  by  dogs,  where  people  die  like  flies,  and  where 
towns  spring  up  like  mushrooms?" 

Our  speaker  emptied  a  glass  of  whiskey,  put  it 
down,  poured  out  another  and  drank  that  too;  for  he 
could  not  bear  either  full  glasses  or  empty  ones. 
Then  he  looked  out,  from  the  bow  window  of  his  little 
bungalow  at  Epsorn  where  we  were,  upon  the  Eng- 
lish landscape — green,  yellow  and  red,  so  clean  and 
tidy  that  it  seemed  just  to  have  received  the  last  touch 
of  varnish  and  come  straight  out  of  the  shop. 

He  had  himself  brought  back  from  the  North 
American  lands,  where  he  had  gathered  wealth,  a 
taste  for  rich  colours.  He  was  bedecked  in  a  green 
waistcoat  and  a  blood-red  tie ;  and  his  great  head,  set 

39 


40  WE  OTHERS 

on  his  broad  and  glistening  collar  with  turned-down 
points,  was  comparable  to  a  sirloin  on  a  dish. 

"However  that  may  be/*  he  went  on,  "I  was  a 
seraphim  by  the  side  of  Daniel  Coffin  Butter shaw. 
This  damned  Dan  was  a  shameful  scamp.  Now  that 
the  time  has  gone  by,  and  I've  thought  about  it,  I'm 
more  and  more  sure  that  Danny  killed  the  old  Jew 
shopkeeper. 

"That  story  is  a  surprising  one.  It's  one  of  the 
most  curious  that  we  used  to  tell  five  years  ago,  on 
the  trail,  during  the  spare  moments  in  journeys  so 
devilishly  long  that  you  could  follow  the  stages  from 
week  to  week  on  a  map  of  the  world  no  bigger  than 
your  hand. 

"Now  my  Coffin  Buttershaw  was  evidently  the  mur- 
derer of  the  unfortunate  trader,  who  was  found  by 
the  light  of  the  moon  with  his  nose  to  the  ground, 
and  his  beard  so  frozen  into  the  snow  that  it  had  to 
be  thawed  out  with  matches.  There  was  no  doubt 
about  it  in  my  mind  or  in  that  of  the  lurid  scoundrel's 
friends;  he  had  done  the  job  for  a  dirty  matter  of  a 
money-bag.  We  hoped  greatly  to  see  him  hanged. 
Unfortunately,  no  sort  of  proof  could  be  brought 
against  him,  and  we  had  to  bury  the  matter  along  with 
the  Jew.  We  were  forced,  too,  we  who  were  Danny's 
companions,  to  continue  his  company  as  before,  to 
laugh  at  his  jokes,  and  prepare  damned  schemes  with 
him;  these  are  of  the  necessities  of  existence.  The 
robber!  I  can  see  him  now  as  I  see  you,  with  his 
snout-like  face,  his  rat's  eyes,  his  bristling,  fish-bone 
moustache,  and  his  grilled  cheeks.  He  was  skinny  as 
a  rail,  his  joints  were  terribly  knotted,  and  nothing 


BLIND  JUSTICE  41 

was  funnier  than  to  see  him  stop  in  front  of  you,  wav- 
ing his  lobster-like  claws  at  the  end  of  his  emaciated 
arms.  Ah,  the  bankrupt  cur! 

"In  short,  off  we  went  again  into  the  country,  him, 
me,  and  two  other  gold-seekers  of  the  same  stamp, 
having  on  our  consciences  either  a  crime,  like  him,  or 
a  few  deals  of  a  delicate  sort,  like  me.  And  willy- 
nilly  we  were  obliged  to  work  together  in  a  sort  of 
partnership. 

"Then,  one  fine  day,  Coffin  left  us.  Or  rather  we 
left  him.  Hem!  How  can  I  explain  that?  You'll 
understand  me  in  the  end.  You  must  know  that  one 
Innonit,  arrived  from  the  North,  told  my  two  other 
companions  and  myself  that  there  was  an  unknown 
gold-field,  some  months'  march  away  from  Fort  Yu- 
kon, towards  the  frontier  of  the  Dominion.  Instinc- 
tively— what?  We  didn't  breathe  a  word  of  it  to 
Coffin.  Certainly  we  were  partners  with  him.  But 
that  doesn't  alter  the  fact  that  one-third's  worth  more 
than  a  quarter,  eh?  And  then  we  remembered,  ex- 
actly at  that  moment,  the  story  of  the  Jew,  and — better 
late  than  never — we  realised  all  the  horror  there  was 
in  living  with  such  a  brigand.  Besides,  our  action 
was  much  more  excusable  because  that  ass  of  an  In- 
nonit had  had  us  disgustingly,  and  his  gold-field  had 
no  existence.  (I  have  never  since  thought  again 
about  that  brute,  so  much  it  hurts  me  that  I  didn't 
strangle  him.) 

"I've  told  you  enough  about  him  for  you  to  under- 
stand with  what  speed  and  what  precautions  we  aban- 
doned our  Coffin  one  morning  on  the  road — if  I  may 
put  in  that  way.  He  was  so  full  of  whiskey  that  he 


42  WE  OTHERS 

would  not  wake  up  within  six  hours  from  then — un- 
less he  preferred  to  have  apoplexy.  That  was  his 
look-out,  eh?  He  hadn't  asked  for  the  Jew's  opinion 
when  he  left  him,  after  putting  him  to  sleep  with  his 
face  in  the  snow! 

"What  happened  to  us,  then?  First,  disappoint- 
ments, failures,  adventures,  and  herculean  labour. 
After  we  had  undergone  all  that,  I  returned  to  Eng- 
land rich,  and  settled  down  in  this  place,  which  I 
bought  honestly. 

"And  what  happened  to  him?  I  found  out  after- 
wards and  am  going  to  tell  you.  Being  without  re- 
sources— naturally  we  had  taken  certain  precautions 
concerning  the  dangerous  blackguard — he  hired  him- 
self on  to  a  farm  in  the  nearest  gold-bearing  district. 
He  worked  hard,  from  morning  to  night  and  from 
night  to  morning,  for  he  backed  out  of  nothing,  not 
even  work,  and  he  hoped — the  son  of  vermin ! — to  put 
a  little  money  by,  and  so  be  able  to  plunge  again  into 
the  pursuit  of  gold,  and  of  us!  So  for  two  months 
he  worked  with  all  his  might,  demolishing  the  jobs  of 
a  beast  of  burden.  The  farmer  was  delighted  to  have 
such  an  all-round  machine  in  his  service,  and  for  those 
two  months  Coffin  led  a  really  exemplary  life. 

"But  one  midnight,  behold,  some  men  broke  in  upon 
the  little  niche  where  he  was  sleeping,  the  cattle-shed 
being  chock-full  on  account  of  new-born  beasts. 
These  men  were  the  sheriff  and  four  powerful  fellows 
who  constituted  the  police  force  of  the  neighbourhood. 
They  shook  friend  Coffin  without  any  consideration. 
Bewildered  and  heavy  with  sleep,  yawning,  grumbling, 


BLIND  JUSTICE  43 

and  opening  the  right  eye  and  the  left  eye  in  turn,  he 
was  hauled  outside,  half  dressed. 

"  'No  resistance,  my  lad,'  said  the  sheriff,  'they  saw 
you  do  the  job/ 

"'What  job?'  growled  our  ex-friend,  who  was  be- 
ginning to  get  cross  about  this  manoeuvre  in  the  icy 
air. 

"As  they  believed  him  rebellious,  the  most  formida- 
ble of  the  force  advanced  and  administered  the  knock- 
out in  half  a  round. 

"When  he  came  round,  the  sheriff  was  in  front  of 
him,  in  a  little  guard-house  where  a  stove  was  snor- 
ing; and  he  was  adjured  to  tell  the  whole  truth  touch- 
ing the  murder  of  the  old  girl. 

"Yes,  exactly.  Daniel  Coffin  Buttershaw  was  ac- 
cused of  having  sent  into  another  world  a  hoary- 
headed  lady  whom  he'd  never  seen!  At  first  stupe- 
fied, the  scamp  floundered  and  shouted  and  stormed. 
But  alas! — I  say  'alas'  on  his  account,  of  course — 
a  terrible  bundle  of  circumstances  overwhelmed  him. 
He  had  been  seen  where  the  crime  had  taken  place; 
the  knife  which  had  pierced  the  venerable  victim  was 
his.  He  defended  himself  badly.  When  confronted 
with  the  little  mummy,  his  bearing  was  adjudged  cyn- 
ical. He  could  not  prove  an  alibi.  Losing  his  head, 
he  accused  everybody  of  the  crime,  including  the 
sheriff  himself!  In  short,  they  put  a  rope  round  his 
neck  one  cold  and  snowy  evening. 

"  'Wait,  wait,  please  P  cried  some  one  who  came 
up  with  his  hair  flying. 

"He  was  a  Catholic  priest.     The  holy  man  had  pre- 


44  WE  OTHERS 

cise  knowledge  that  Coffin  was  innocent,  having  heard 
the  confession  of  the  real  culprit. 

"But  it  happened — you  know  how  ferocious  local 
dislikes  are  in  little  places,  and  so  it  is  no  matter 
where — that  the  sheriff  was  on  bad  terms  with  the 
priest.  So  he  looked  on  him  satirically  as  he  re- 
quested him,  in  that  case,  to  name  the  guilty  party. 
As  the  priest  refused,  pleading  the  secrecy  of  the  con- 
fessional, the  sheriff  turned  to  the  hangman  and  bade 
him  hoist  the  culprit  into  the  air. 

"While  the  hangman  was  obeying,  the  priest,  held 
back  by  two  policemen,  gesticulated  and  stammered — 
'It's  an  abominable  injustice,  a  monstrous  crime! 
God  will  curse  you!  Beware  of  his  malediction!' 

"And  a  thousand  other  things  of  the  same  sort. 

"God!  I  can  imagine  that  He,  who  had  from  high 
heaven  seen  all  Coffin's  life- time  from  the  first  act, 
must  rather  have  smiled  some." 


THE  WAG 

THE  life  led  by  His  Gracious  Majesty's  troops  at 
Dorsahabad  was  infinitely,  rigidly  mournful. 
The  district  defined  in  the  inferno  of  the  North- West, 
the  limit  of  the  vast  Indian  continent.  It  was  bare, 
consisting  merely  of  a  marsh,  the  green  spectre  of 
meadows. 

In  the  middle  of  this  territory — which  would  have 
been  a  sea  in  Europe,  but  here  was  dwindled  to  a  pud- 
dle— the  Empire's  boundary  submerged  itself,  the  line 
where  the  English  universe  fits  into  Asia. 

The  station  was  an  important  one  because  of  that 
frontier.  Sorrowfully  as  it  arose  out  of  the  marsh- 
land, by  the  side  of  the  heap  of  streets  that  looked 
like  a  cemetery  and  was  really  the  town,  our  little  fort 
was  placed  like  a  landmark  on  a  world's  threshold. 
That  became  clear,  sometimes  and  suddenly,  when  we 
happened  to  descry  with  the  field-glass,  far  away  yon- 
der to  the  North,  a  horseman  in  an  astrakhan  cap. 

And  that  is  why  we  were  so  many  and  so  select  in 
this  derelict  southern  barracks. 

That  also  is  why,  one  year,  in  the  heart  of  our  regi- 
ment, there  were  those  frightful  outrages,  and  those 
three  bombs. 

The  bombs  were  thrown  by  men  disguised  as  sol- 
diers who  had  mixed  themselves  among  us.  The  af- 
fair was  Anarchist  or  Fenian.  Anarchists  are  inver- 

45 


46  WE  OTHERS 

tebrate  sociologists;  Fenians  are  Irishmen  gone  rotten. 
The  Committee,  lurking  somewhere  in  the  United 
States,  and  having  at  their  command  the  unlimited 
wealth  of  traitors,  had  decided  to  destroy  the  staff  of 
one  of  the  outermost  Indian  garrisons  by  way  of  a 
big  stroke  that  would  be  within  the  whole  world's 
vision. 

The  long  arm  of  the  Committee  had  scattered  its 
emissaries  in  the  North.  Planted  in  the  fort,  in  the 
form  of  old  soldiers,  and  by  no  one  knows  what  in- 
fernally patient  plotting,  the  ringleaders  aimed  at  ex- 
ploding mutiny  and  dynamite. 

The  mutiny  miscarried.  As  for  the  bombs,  un- 
fortunately, they  did  not  miss.  But  they  only  caused 
some  wounds,  which  were  soon  cured.  As  for  the 
perpetrators,  three  of  them  were  cured  radically. 
Others  were  put  into  safe  keeping  for  life. 

The  Committee  went  to  earth  somewhere  else,  not 
without  saying  that  they  would  begin  over  again. 
True,  nobody  could  say  where  or  when  or  how  the 
Committee  had  said  it. 

In  spite  of  the  extensive  weeding-out  which  fol- 
lowed, all  we  of  the  garrison  set  ourselves  to  keep  our 
eyes  open,  to  take  notice — and  watch. 

A  little  later,  ashamed  that  we  had  not  unmasked 
the  sinister  sham  soldiers,  we  applied  ourselves  to  our 
own  surveillance  as  to  a  duty  and  a  fate,  and  I  assure 
you  that  it  would  have  needed  a  miracle  for  the  im- 
postures and  outrages  to  begin  again. 

Pat  set  about  it  like  the  rest. 

Pat  was  the  good  genius  of  the  military  exiles  of 


THE  WAG  47 

Dorsahabad,  in  the  sense  that  their  only  diversion  for 
years  had  been  to  laugh  at  him. 

He  did  that  on  his  own,  too — Gad,  didn't  he ! — and 
I've  never  met  a  merrier  dog.  He  was  an  Irishman, 
from  a  root  of  strong  quality.  Indeed,  he  reminded 
you  of  a  root  by  his  knotty  fingers  and  his  greyish 
face,  at  once  flattened  and  lumpy.  But  by  way  of 
amends  for  that  plain  aspect,  nature  had  finished  him 
off  with  a  head  of  hair  as  scarlet  as  the  gaudy  mop 
of  the  clown  in  pantomime. 

He  was  recognised  and  noticed  everywhere  by  that 
clean  red  blot,  as  if  he  had  carried  a  light.  It  put  his 
face  into  uniform,  so  to  speak,  and  crowned  him  as 
a  great  national  joker. 

In  fact  Pat  had  never — never,  mind  you,  and  I  use 
the  big  word  without  flinching — let  a  chance  go  by  of 
saying  or  doing  some  pleasantry,  of  carrying  on  like 
a  marionette  by  the  help  of  his  wooden  arms  and  legs 
or  of  cleaving  with  explosive  laughter  the  cemented 
bas-relief  of  his  face. 

But  in  spite  of  this  tireless  foolery,  in  spite  even  of 
the  "Bengal  fire"  so  inadequately  extinguished  by  his 
cap,  this  Pat  was  an  excellent  soldier.  He  could  re- 
cite the  verses  of  the  drill  manual  backwards,  and  his 
courage  was  of  countless  proofs. 

So  in  our  life  of  internal  watchfulness  and  self- 
examination,  several  circumstances  proved  that  he  was 
not  the  least  zealous. 

As  for  poking  fun  at  those  affairs  of  lurking  an- 
archist ringleaders  and  the  like,  you  may  imagine  he 
took  the  chance !  He  was  always  mimicking  the  con- 
spirators. 


48  WE  OTHERS 

Often  in  the  non-coms'  square  of  blinding  light  and 
crowding  gossipers,  you  saw  him  appear  enveloped 
in  a  big  black  cloak,  and  rattling  with  a  whole  armoury 
of  weapons  as  he  crept  along  the  wall  with  all  the 
necessary  melodramatic  mimicry.  He  used  to  crawl 
as  far  as  the  door,  unmoved  by  our  laughter,  his  wide 
mouth  set  with  gravity,  his  big  bluish  eye  steady  as  a 
night-light. 

You  follow  me?  The  simple  fact  that  they  let  him 
apply  his  tricks  to  that  sort  of  souvenir  will  give  you 
a  much  better  idea  of  his  popularity  and  ability  than 
all  my  feeble  remarks  and  poor  descriptions — I  who 
only  know  how  to  edit  service  reports  and  tickets. 

One  day  he  went  farther ;  this  time  indeed  he  passed 
the  limit.  We  were  all  there  in  the  guard-room, 
awaiting  the  report  of  the  officers  who  were  assembled 
close  by. 

The  black  and  obscure  outline  of  Pat  appeared  in 
the  doorway. 

"How's  that  for  a  bomb!"  he  shouted  at  the  top  of 
his  voice. 

He  came  in,  carrying  an  enormous  bomb,  with  a 
piece  of  string  hanging  from  it  that  looked  red.  The 
big  devil  showed  all  the  signs  of  intense  terror.  He 
kept  pretending  to  drop  it,  only  to  catch  it  again  in 
flight  with  the  clumsiness  of  the  accomplished  juggler, 
and  uttering  the  little  chuckles  of  a  pretty  woman. 
Assuredly,  even  if  the  vessel  only  contained  harmless 
soup  it  would  most  certainly  have  spread  itself  over 
the  neighbourhood !  Luckily  it  was  no  such  thing,  and 
we  were  left  unstained. 

Then  he  hugged  his  bomb  in  his  arms  and  pressed 


THE  WAG  49 

it  on  his  heart  upside  down.  Then  with  little  steps, 
and  absurdly  rigid,  indicating  the  bomb  with  desperate 
excitement  in  his  eyes,  he  placed  it  at  the  foot  of  the 
wall. 

That  done,  he  sighed  and  mopped  his  forehead,  and 
as  he  looked  at  us  a  smile  reflected  our  laughter  on  his 
spacious  face.  Then  once  more,  grimaces  and  antics. 
He  trembled  on  his  long  thin  legs,  pretended  he  had 
arrived  at  the  limit  of  fright,  jumped  up  with  his  feet 
together,  bunged  his  ears  up  and  went  off  at  last  like 
a  whirlwind. 

I  was  doing  sentry-go  at  the  door  of  the  guard- 
room. Having  gone  just  inside  to  watch  the  perform- 
ance of  our  official  jester,  I  resumed  my  post.  In 
amusement  I  went  a  few  paces  into  the  yard,  so  that 
I  could  see  the  clown  better  as  he  galloped  off  with  in- 
credibly long  strides — exactly  like  those  with  which 
comic  artists  extend  the  legs  of  sprinters  in  sketches. 

To  that  action  of  mine  I  owed  it  that  I  was  not 
mangled  with  the  rest  when  the  terrible  explosion 
came  that  turned  the  frontier  fort  into  a  battlefield. 


THE  GREEN  SPECTRE 

Reverend  Mr.  Parish  was  as  rigid  as  a 
•••  corpse;  he  was  alive  all  the  same.  From  morn- 
ing to  night  he  devoted  himself  to  all  the  pursuits  en- 
joined by  heaven  upon  a  pastor  and  an  upright  man. 
He  made  certain  the  services  of  his  denomination, 
preached,  prayed,  talked  to  his  sons — sometimes  as 
one  preaches  and  sometimes  as  one  prays — and  even 
ventured  into  his  little  garden,  to  which  his  tall  and 
mournful  outline  then  gave  the  semblance  of  a  ceme- 
tery. 

His  speech  had  no  accentuation.  His  pale  face  had 
no  expression;  it  had  petrified  itself  into  a  statuette, 
and  his  wrinkles  had  become  as  invariable  as  the  let- 
ters of  his  name. 

It  was  not  alone  his  feeling  towards  the  sacerdotal 
life,  his  stern  respect  for  principle,  his  inconsolable 
passion  for  perfection,  that  gave  him  that  icy  mien, 
that  made  the  smiles  of  children  fade  away  as  he 
passed,  and  daunted  the  fleeting  joy  of  life  one  has 
sometimes. 

He  bore  an  internal  wound,  the  measureless  remorse 
of  a  crime, — a  crime  done  by  his  father  in  overt  dis- 
obedience to  God.  The  Reverend  Abel  Parish  had, 
in  fact,  committed  suicide. 

Because  of  that  suicide,  Abel  Parish  was  writhing 
in  hell.  This  idea  was  unpleasant  to  his  son,  and  it 

so 


THE  GREEN  SPECTRE  51 

embarrassed  him,  compared  with  him  who  had  given 
him  life,  in  preaching  the  necessary  religion. 

But  this  was  not  all.  They  who  believe  in  and  who 
practise  the  true  faith  know  that  generations  are  bound 
together  by  their  acts  as  if  with  chains.  The  iniquity 
of  the  fathers  is  visited  upon  the  children,  related 
people  being,  in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord,  only  people  that 
hang  on  to  each  other  and  drag  themselves  into  the 
abyss. 

How  had  the  act  come  about?  The  pastor  was  al- 
ways passionately  putting  the  question  to  himself ;  and 
from  time  to  time  his  conversation  would  suddenly 
cease,  as  he  fell  into  urgent  meditation  that  one  re- 
spected. Or  it  fell  on  him  when  alone  in  the  garden, 
black  and  notionless  as  a  cypress. 

One  stormy  night  his  father,  on  whose  devout  al- 
legiance nothing  had  ever  cast  suspicion,  had  retired 
into  the  green  room,  and  they  found  him  there  the  fol- 
lowing day,  breathing  his  last  behind  the  locked  door. 

Placed  upon  his  bed,  with  his  two  sons  standing  by 
like  funeral  tapers,  he  had  opened  his  eyes  and  stam- 
mered, "The  Green  Spectre!"  Then  he  fainted,  re- 
peating the  expression  which  to  those  present  sounded 
like  nothing  good  on  the  lips  of  a  Christian. 

The  doctor  bent  down.  He  was  young  and  anx- 
ious. Fraternally  he  announced  to  the  young  people 
that  their  father  was  dead.  A  little  later  they  learned, 
as  a  result  of  the  inquiry  and  of  the  doctor's  evidence, 
that  the  author  of  their  days  had  succumbed  as  the  re- 
sult of  taking  the  devilish  substance  called  arsenic  into 
the  stomach.  They  lowered  their  heads  in  foresight 


52  WE  OTHERS 

of  all  the  punishments  to  come,  and  from  that  day  a 
huge  melancholy  fell  upon  them. 

The  younger  had  since  died,  and  the  older  one  bore 
alone — in  this  world,  at  least — all  the  family  sorrow. 

Often  his  steps  led  him  to  the  green  room  in  the 
summer-house,  and  often  he  entered  the  little  retreat, 
where  nothing  had  been  altered  since  the  accursed 
happening.  Its  paper  hung  in  strips  and  had  devel- 
oped velvety  stains  of  intense  green. 

Resting  on  the  old  seat — the  shapeless  and  only  wit- 
ness of  the  un forgiven  drama — the  son  would  set  him- 
self stubbornly  to  find  the  reasons  for  his  father's 
suicide. 

Sometimes  the  fervency  of  the  meditation,  furi- 
ously persisted  in  for  the  sake  of  both  knowledge  and 
penance,  seemed  to  pulverise  his  brain  and  cause  vi- 
sions. One  evening  he  thought  he  saw  something  in 
green  upright  beside  him.  The  little  cry  that  he  gave 
exorcised  it.  He  was  really  alone  in  the  pale  room 
of  the  summer-house,  with  its  blue-black  skylight. 
There  was  nothing  new ;  between  the  indelible  memory 
of  the  crime  and  the  greatness  of  God  there  was  noth- 
ing but  a  futile  suppliant. 

That  year,  when  the  anniversary  of  the  error  re- 
turned, it  seemed  to  him  that  people  would  be  able, 
henceforth  as  they  went  by,  to  read  on  his  face  as  on 
a  signboard  his  misery  and  dread. 

His  age  was  that  at  which  his  father  had  destroyed 
the  life  only  lent  to  him,  and  thus  brought  future  pun- 
ishment on  all  his  family.  It  was  even  on  a  night  as 
stormy  as  that  other  when  the  ageing  son  climbed  the 


THE  GREEN  SPECTRE  53 

stone  steps  of  the  neglected  building,  and  went  heavily 
into  the  green  room. 

A  sudden  gust  of  wind  banged  the  door  behind  him. 
He  tried  to  open  it  again,  and  failed.  The  driving 
force  of  the  gale  had  been  such  that  the  door  of  dis- 
jointed boards  had  strained  the  old  uneven  frame  into 
which  it  fitted,  while  the  bolt  of  the  lock  had  bent  and 
wedged  itself  into  projecting  wood. 

When  he  knew  himself  imprisoned  there  until  the 
morning,  he  sat  down.  He  was  not  afraid  to  remain 
all  night  in  the  funereal  place.  He  was  afraid  of 
nothing,  save  of  the  Lord's  purposes  concerning  him, 
— and  he  began  to  think  of  his  only  thought. 

A  great  weariness  crumbled  and  destroyed  his  ideas, 
and  he  went  to  sleep.  Waking,  he  remembered  that 
he  had  just  struggled  and  groaned.  He  opened  his 
eyes,  and  saw  a  hideous  green  figure,  that  hovered  in 
front  of  him.  The  spectre  threw  itself  upon  the  man, 
and  drove  its  finger-nail  into  his  temples.  The  pastor 
tried  to  breathe  out  a  moan,  and  fell  in  a  heap.  At 
that  moment  the  hurricane  hurled  itself  more  fiercely 
than  ever  on  the  old  summer-house,  and  a  worm-eaten 
rafter  gave  way.  The  roof  fell  in,  and  the  wild  and 
streaming  wind  of  the  night  rushed  into  the  green 
room,  where  the  pastor  lay  like  one  of  those  sculp- 
tured figures  which  here  and  there  in  the  course  of 
centuries  have  begun  their  eternal  slumber  upon  the 
tombstones. 

In  the  morning,  when  his  sons  had  found  him  and 
carried  him  to  his  bed,  he  struggled  slightly,  his  eye- 
lids fluttered,  and  he  said,  "The  Green  Spectre!" 

The  two  sons,  standing  and  rigid,  had  that  in  their 


54  WE  OTHERS 

eyes  which  trembled  like  the  flames  of  funeral  tapers. 
The  doctor — he  who  had  come  there  a  generation  be- 
fore— bent  over  the  dying  man.  He  heard  the  mur- 
mur, and  he  too  trembled.  But  after  a  minute  he  said, 
"He  will  not  die,  this  time." 

In  deep  thought  the  physician  withdrew ;  he  sought 
and  enquired.  At  the  end  of  the  day  he  came  and 
sat  down  by  the  bed  where  the  pastor  lay  paralysed 
with  weakness,  but  his  eyes  open. 

"It's  the  green,"  said  the  doctor. 

He  explained  that  the  room  in  the  summer-house 
was  poisonous,  by  reason  of  the  green  dust  which  had 
gathered  upon  the  tattered  decorations.  That  dust,  a 
residuum  of  former  paint,  was  a  highly  separated  sedi- 
ment from  Scheele's  green.  It  is  alleged  that  pro- 
longed stay  in  places  where  fine  particles  of  this  pig- 
ment are  found  in  suspension  provokes  frightful  hal- 
lucinations. And  it  is  admitted  that  these  illusions,  in 
the  case  of  sensitive  people  and  those  weakened  by  old 
age  or  some  other  cause,  may  give  rise  to  terrible  or- 
ganic disorders.  And 

He  was  continuing,  when  a  harsh  cry  broke  off  his 
words.  Half  risen  in  bed,  the  sick  man  stared  at  him 
with  an  unutterable  look  of  eager  rapture,  and  stam- 
mered : 

"Then  my  father  did  not  kill  himself?" 

He  burst  into  laughter  of  strange  sound,  laughter 
come  to  life  again  after  so  many  years,  and  cried,  "He 
did  not  kill  himself!  Then  I  am  innocent!  I  am 
innocent !" 


THE  OTHERS 

YES,  I  was  born  at  St.  Vincent,"  said  the  general 
to  the  surgeon-major  who  was  accompanying 
him  back  to  brigade  headquarters;  "I've  got  a  house 
down  there  waiting  for  me,  and  some  day  I  shall  go 
back,  to  peter  out  there  as  obscurely  as  I  was  born/' 

"Oh !"  said  the  gold-laced  surgeon  deferentially,  and 
it  seemed  proper  that  he  should  add,  "How  long  has 
your  absence  been,  General?" 

"Fifty  years!"  He  laughed  at  the  surprise  which 
the  huge  figure  provoked;  and  the  same  night,  as  he 
went  to  bed,  he  saw  again  the  major's  astonished  face 
when  he  had  spoken  to  him  of  a  fifty  years'  separa- 
tion. Then  suddenly,  with  a  sort  of  faintness — age, 
perhaps,  or  a  slight  fever — he  saw  it  all  more  clearly, 
and  started  with  surprise  at  that  half-century. 

He  wondered  why  he  had  never  gone  back  down 
there,  found  no  possible  reason,  and  went  to  sleep  that 
night  more  uneasy  than  before  about  the  great  con- 
cerns of  life. 

According  as  the  age  of  retirement  drew  more  dis- 
tinctly near  him,  he  kept  saying,  "I  must  go  down 
there  first."  The  idea  took  such  root  in  his  head  that 
one  day  he  was  impelled  to  set  off. 

When  the  train  was  under  way,  the  idea  quite  daz- 
zled him  that  he  had  at  last  acted  on  this  astounding 
resolve  to  go  back  for  a  day  to  the  place  whence  he 

55 


56  WE  OTHERS 

had  come.  Then  he  felt  a  pang  of  new  anxiety — the 
apprehension  that  he  was  sacrificing  something. 

He  shut  his  eyes  and  tried  to  picture  the  shapes  and 
the  faces  of  the  houses.  He  thought,  "All  must  be 
changed;  it  is  so  long  ago!" 

When  the  name  of  St.  Vincent  was  shouted  on  the 
platform,  towards  half -past  four  of  a  sunny  day,  it 
roused  him  from  his  sleepiness  and  touched  his  heart, 
and  he  frowned  slightly.  He  got  up  with  the  same 
composed  heroic  excitement  that  the  eve  of  battle  had 
been  wont  to  bring  him,  and  descended  from  the  car- 
riage. 

Certainly  the  humble  station,  though  become  poor 
in  comparison  with  important  neighbours,  and  regu- 
larly overlooked  by  the  expresses,  was  similar  to  what 
it  always  was,  and  he  knew  it  again. 

He  went  along  the  path  that  followed  the  palings, 
turned  into  the  Avenue  des  Peupliers,  and  looked 
ahead.  "Ah !"  he  said. 

At  a  hundred  paces  forward  on  the  road,  to  right 
and  left  beyond  the  bridge,  he  found  the  village  again 
exactly  as  in  the  days  when  he  played  under  those 
poplars.  It  was  the  same  picture  of  fields  enclosed 
by  tall  trees,  of  black  windows  framed  in  white,  of 
meadows  and  foliage ;  so  much  the  same,  in  truth,  that 
he  no  longer  saw  clearly  how  he  stood  in  the  matter. 
And  the  breeze  that  met  him,  too,  had  not  ceased  to 
be  the  same. 

The  old  man  walked  with  a  brisker  step  along  the 
sunlit  avenue,  to  meet  the  breeze  and  the  village,  a 
village  so  pretty  that  childishly  he  looked  on  it  as  on 
a  picture. 


THE  OTHERS  57 

When  he  reached  the  first  houses — the  farms  that 
expanded  across  the  clover  fields  to  the  mill,  the  saw- 
mill, with  its  perfume  of  a  forest  in  quintessence — he 
declared  decidedly  that  the  village  had  remained  quite 
as  it  was  before  his  long  exile. 

A  vague  delight,  courage  and  hope,  awoke  within 
him,  thus  to  see  all  his  memories  coming  to  life.  He 
met  himself  again,  as  one  discovers  a  treasure,  when 
he  espied,  on  the  border  of  the  main  street,  the  sign 
of  the  inn,  no  rustier  to-day  than  of  yore.  He  even 
recognised  what  he  had  forgotten. 

The  old  officer,  who  had  never  felt  himself  brave 
except  when  facing  enemy  bayonets  and  guns,  plucked 
up  courage  in  the  matter  of  the  undefined  ambushes  of 
fate.  Time  was  not  so  terrible  as  all  that,  since  it  let 
him  come  back,  and  gave  him  back  at  once  the  past  as 
he  had  left  it.  Fate  had  not  got  all  those  frightful 
and  irrevocable  changes  that  people  made  out.  There 
were  places  which  remained  peaceful  always,  as  if 
they  were  Paradise.  In  its  corner  of  the  world,  St. 
Vincent  was  too  simple  to  forget  its  own  renewal,  too 
little  to  grow  bigger. 

On  the  second  side  of  the  square  into  which  the  man 
was  proceeding,  he  read  the  words  "Railway  Goods 
Traffic."  He  remembered  that  it  used  to  be  "Imperial 
Post."  It  was  a  very  trivial  and  permissible  altera- 
tion, and  it  made  him  smile. 

On  the  waste  land  which  goes  from  the  circle  of 
lime-trees  as  far  as  the  buttressed  walls  of  the  convent, 
there  were  heaped  stones,  planks,  and  a  fragment  of 
roofing,  scaly  with  slates.  He  had  always  seen  it  in 
that  state.  But — yes — but  formerly  there  was  mate- 


58  WE  OTHERS 

rial  there  for  a  house  they  were  going  to  build.  And 
now  that  house  was  in  ruins.  But  it  had  quite  the 
same  appearance,  and  he  recognised  it. 

But  now,  the  man  who  had  come  back  blinked  his 
eyes.  On  the  threshold  of  the  shop  which  stood  at 
the  corner  of  the  path  leading  to  the  sandpits,  he  dis- 
cerned a  feminine  and  monumental  outline. 

"Hullo!  Madame  Chabot, — or  rather  some  one  of 
her  family/' 

He  recalled  the  uncouth  goodwife  of  former  times 
who  used  to  obstruct  her  doorway  with  her  circular 
lines.  Obesity  was  traditional  in  her  family. 

He  compared  dates  and  counted  the  years.  Then 
he  stood  still  in  the  middle  of  the  street  with  a  slight 
shudder.  That  woman  could  not  be  even  the  daugh- 
ter of  the  other  whom  he  used  to  see  there,  and  she 
made  one  think  of  several  graves.  That  impression 
scared  him  like  the  beginning  of  a  nightmare. 

What?  There's  that  robber,  Tripalet,  his  face 
smudged  with  alcoholic  colours,  his  nose  like  an  old 
cork,  gesticulating  at  the  door  of  the  tavern!  But  no! 
He  gave  up  gesticulating  long  since.  It  was — yes,  it 
was  his  grandson,  unconsciously  imitating  the  ances- 
tral puppet. 

As  soon  as  he  accosted  one  of  those  now  living 
there,  there  where  he  had  learned  to  live,  he  had  to 
do  with  a  remote  descendant,  with  a  stranger,  who 
moved  in  the  gap  left  by  the  other,  and  smiled  in  his 
place. 

Any  people  of  his  time?  There^  were  none  left. 
His  informant  made  a  momentary  sign  of  hope.  Yet 
no — the  decrepit  invalid  whose  mouth  was  as  empty  as 


THE  OTHERS  59 

his  eyelids,  and  who  sat  outside  his  house  and  gos- 
siped, his  cotton  cap  flashing  in  the  sunshine — he  was 
not  a  village  ancient;  he  had  come  from  elsewhere. 
No  one  had  escaped,  no  one ;  and  worse  than  that,  for 
since  the  passing  of  those  with  whom  he  had  mingled, 
an  unknown  generation  had  ceased  to  be. 

Ah,  the  houses  had  not  changed,  and  the  stones  had 
remained  in  their  places.  Good !  But  places  and  things 
are  chilling,  and  the  village  was  only  a  cemetery  that 
had  not  grown  bigger.  To  say  truth,  there  had  been 
a  huge  massacre  of  living  men,  more  obvious  than 
elsewhere  in  this  stagnant  place,  where  one  met  his- 
tory again  and  the  details  of  dramas  on  the  faces  of 
the  heirs,  where  melancholy  resemblances  to  features 
and  names  told  all  there  was  to  tell,  where  marks  of 
mourning  seemed  written  even  on  the  immutability  of 
the  house- fronts,  on  the  signboards  as  in  the  epi- 
taphs ! 

The  old  man,  who  had  smiled  when  he  came,  shook 
himself,  growled,  and  lamented.  He  perceived  that 
the  village  rejected  him  more  surely  than  any  other 
place  in  the  world.  Was  he  not  a  belated  and  incon- 
sistent survival,  a  residue  of  night  in  a  new  day?  In- 
stinctively he  retreated  into  an  alley  as  into  a  hole. 

Close  to  his  ear  he  heard  a  strange  harsh  cry. 
Trembling,  he  looked  up.  It  was  he,  the  parrot  he 
had  known  before,  exactly  on  the  same  spot,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  spent  half-century;  and  it  was  just 
the  same  cry.  But  the  bird  was  only  a  thing,  its  cry 
only  a  blind  and  deaf  noise.  The  caged  survival  of 
the  little  green  freak  was  worth  no  more  to  the  heart 
of  the  man  than  was  the  eternity  of  the  wind  or  the, 


60  WE  OTHERS 

springtime  or  the  sun,  things  which  appear  to  live 
though  they  are  in  reality  dead. 

Still,  he  went  on  as  far  as  his  house.  Anthony  Tar- 
dieu's  grand-niece  opened  the  door  and  stood  aside, 
her  mouth  squared  and  her  arms  dangling,  nor  sus- 
pected that  here  was  the  legendary  master  whom  the 
family  had  only  known  for  so  many  years  by  the 
money  he  sent. 

He  said,  in  an  undertone  and  quickly,  "It's  me!" 

She  did  not  understand,  but  let  him  pass.  He 
mounted  the  stairs,  crossed  the  landing,  and  entered 
the  drawing-room. 

On  the  wall  stood  the  portrait  of  a  young  fair  man, 
in  the  uniform  of  a  sub-lieutenant.  This  portrait  had 
been  painted  several  months  before  the  accidental 
death  of  the  sub-lieutenant,  who  was  the  father  of 
the  general. 

The  old  man,  enshrouded  and  buried  in  an  arm- 
chair, lifted  his  eyes  to  the  picture,  and  looked  at  the 
youth  with  a  gaping  look  that  was  full  of  things  im- 
possible to  express  or  to  confess. 

Little  Martha  Tardieu,  who  had  come  up  on  the 
visitor's  heels,  saw  his  clenched  hands  and  wrinkled 
forehead — shipwrecked  at  the  foot  of  the  beautiful 
image,  an  image  as  unchanging,. serene,  and  infinitely 
dead  as  a  crucifix. 


BOOK  II 
THE  MADNESS  OF  LOVE 


THE  FUNERAL  MARCH 

AS  she  went  along  the  urban  quarter  into  where  the 
wet  fog  was  filtering  she  wanted  to  cry.  All  the 
same,  she  made  haste,  and  skipped  from  one  stone  to 
another,  along  the  pallid  glitter  of  the  pavement. 

From  a  distance,  the  slim  outline  looked  smart,  and 
even  fashionable.  Her  ankles,  delicate  as  stalks,  were 
placed  in  little  polished  shoes  with  well-squared  heels ; 
her  dress  went  straight  as  a  die  up  to  her  chin ;  and 
her  hat,  shaped  like  a  candle  extinguisher,  quite  poorly 
extinguished  a  lock  of  fair  hair  on  her  neck. 

When  near,  the  girl  was  no  more  than  pretty.  Her 
skirt  was  too  meagre,  her  hat  quite  eaten  up  with  pin- 
holes,  her  corsage  of  stuff  so  thin  that  any  one  could 
have  seen  her  heart-beats. 

Although  her  haste  left  her  little  time  for  thought, 
she  felt  desperately  sad.  Everything  made  her  want 
to  cry — her  dull  life,  so  young  yet  already  futureless; 
the  hard  work,  and  the  impossibility  of  flirtation;  the 
house  where  she  lived — the  most  unfriendly  of  all 
houses ;  the  only  room,  and  its  eternal  accompanists — 
father  chasing  mother  round  the  stove  and  dragging 
a  chair;  the  smell  of  greasy  crockery,  which  sickened 
you  after  dinner,  and  the  smell  of  cooking,  which 
sickened  you  before;  the  dirty  mirror,  that  had  to  be 
cleaned  every  morning ;  and  on  the  landing,  the  untidy 
and  beastly  neighbour  who  posted  himself  by  the  tap, 

63 


64  WE  OTHERS 

and  as  soon  as  she  appeared  with  her  jug  showed  the 
lewd  eyes  and  greasy  smile  of  his  moonstruck  face. 

Added  to  all  this,  there  was  the  grief  of  this  morn- 
ing, which  was 'gloomy  as  a  night;  the  infinite  mo- 
notony of  the  running  gutter,  cold  as  a  river ;  all  this 
autumnal,  infectious  sickliness,  and  above  all,  the 
rough  and  wilful  gusts  of  rain  that  began  to  make  her 
dress  look  stained  and  ridiculous. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  world  to  whom  gaiety  was 
more  forbidden. 

No  one?  Yes,  there  was  some  one.  Just  at  that 
moment  his  stooping  figure  was  emerging  from  the 
entry  to  some  works.  He  was  just  the  same  age  as 
herself,  and  he  was  a  prisoner  in  a  forge,  as  she  was 
in  a  dressmaker's  workroom. 

To  right  and  to  left  he  turned  his  bluish  face,  one 
that  would  have  been  very  pleasant  had  it  been  less 
thin  and  reduced.  He  sniffed  at  the  blast,  and  then 
let  it  take  him  away  along  the  livid,  gleaming  street. 
One  before  the  other  he  put  down  his  huge  iron-bound 
boots,  wavered  slightly  in  the  wind,  and  thought  about 
nothing — for  fear  of  thinking  about  himself  and  what 
it  was  he  was  doing  here  on  earth. 

Now,  the  young  man  whom  the  squalls  handled  as 
roughly  as  the  world  did,  and  the  girl  bereft  of  smiles 
by  the  bad  weather  that  also  punished  her  poor  dress — 
these  two  were  going  towards  each  other. 

They  had  met  twice,  by  chance ;  and  this  time,  which 
was  the  hour  when  the  workshops  close  at  midday, 
they  tried  to  meet  (by  chance)  a  third  time,  knowing 
nothing  of  each  other  nor  having  spoken. 

It  happened  that  they  really  approached  each  other, 


THE  FUNERAL  MARCH  65 

and  that  she  turned  up  an  alley  just  when  he  entered 
it  at  the  other  end ;  so  that  she  appeared  suddenly  be- 
fore him,  like  a  fairy. 

He  stopped  dead,  pricking  up  from  his  massive 
boots,  and  his  back  and  shoulders  trembling.  The 
eyes  in  his  earnest  face  opened  wide,  with  a  look  of 
being  rewarded. 

She  also  stopped,  and  timidly  they  put  their  hands 
out  to '  each  other,  like  two  beggars.  Then  each 
pressed  the  ringers  of  the  other,  more  by  way  of  cling- 
ing to  each  other  than  of  saying  good-day — for  one 
does  not  always  know  how  to  begin  at  the  beginning. 

One  moment  they  stood  still,  seriously  considering 
which  way  they  should  go  together.  Bravely  against 
the  wind  they  set  off,  he  with  a  red  nose  and  she  with 
pink  eyes,  and  between  them  their  two  hands,  making 
one  only,  each  nursing  the  other. 

She  was  the  first  to  speak — "I've  got  till  one  o'clock ; 
and  you?" 

"I,  too,"  he  replied ;  "shan't  we  lunch  together  now, 
don't  you  think?" 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  cried,  enraptured  of  the  plan. 

They  both  laughed — hesitatingly  at  first,  as  though 
they  were  attempting  it.  When  it  ended,  their  faces 
remained  lighted  up. 

"Look,"  he  said,  "it  hardly  rains  now!" 

"What  luck!"  She  clapped  her  hands.  All  the 
same,  the  rain  had  not  ceased  to  fall  on  the  bare  back- 
ground of  the  avenue. 

"Now  that  it's  fine,  let's  sit  down  a  minute." 

"Wait!"     He  stopped  her  with  a  gesture,  and  pull- 


66  WE  OTHERS 

ing  a  newspaper  from  his  pocket,  he  unfolded  it  upon 
the  damp  seat. 

"Ah,"  she  said,  moved  to  tears  by  the  courtesy, 
"how  kind  you  are!" 

She  sat  down,  and  looked  at  him  so  grandly  that  she 
seemed  to  be  enthroned.  He  placed  himself  beside 
her.  She  tossed  her  head — "Papa  would  beat  me  if 
he  knew  where  I  was!" 

"For  my  part,"  he  replied,  "it's  my  mother!" 

The  picture  of  the  dangers  defied  made  them  merry, 
and  they  smiled,  being  too  near  each  other  to  dare  to 
laugh. 

But  when  a  gust  of  wind  shook  the  plane-tree  above 
them  and  gave  them  quite  a  shower-bath,  they  were 
obliged  to  laugh  as  they  shook  themselves. 

Everything  was  growing  darker.  Mournful  black 
clouds  ever  more  and  more  begloomed  the  sky  and 
submerged  the  earth. 

"Look  how  pretty  it  is,"  she  said. 

She  pointed  out  how  the  house-fronts  shone  with 
water,  the  polished  roofs,  the  dark  slabs  of  the  foot- 
path, the  glistening  gutters. 

"Yes,"  he  stammered,  "yes."  Admiringly  he 
added,  "We've  still  got  half  an  hour." 

She  wanted  to  walk  a  little.  He  agreed  that  it 
would  certainly  be  still  better.  They  got  up  and 
steered  straight  ahead.  When  people  walk  together 
they  come  magically  near.  Every  minute  their  lone- 
liness was  enriched. 

They  passed  in  front  of  a  ground-floor  window  that 
was  half -open.  Through  the  aperture  they  saw  a 
shabby  room — dirty,  sinister,  bare,  and  breathing 


THE  FUNERAL  MARCH  67 

forth  dampness.  But  they  thought  with  a  quiver  of 
the  room  they  might  have.  Then  they  thought  still 
of  that  heavenly  room  as  they  brushed  past  another 
window,  of  which  the  shutters  were  closed. 

In  that  moment  they  had  together  shut  their  eyes, 
both  of  them  blind,  and  guided  by  each  other. 

They  walked  and  walked.  The  houses  grew  fewer, 
and  then  the  passers-by.  The  big  avenue  became  a 
main  road.  They  breathed  the  free  air,  full-lunged. 
A  trail  of  smoke  emitted  by  the  works,  stranded  yon- 
der towards  the  horizon,  brought  them  a  smell  of 
damp  earth.  They  inhaled  this  scent  of  the  country, 
this  holiday  perfume. 

"Just  now  the  clouds  were  dirty,  and  now  they  are 
pearly  grey,"  said  one  of  their  little  voices. 

After  they  had  walked  still  more,  suddenly  there 
rose  like  an  apparition  on  the  side  of  the  road  a  great 
white  wall.  Above  the  wall  arose  cypress  trees,  new- 
looking. 

Hand  in  hand,  they  admired  the  foliage,  reached 
the  gates,  and  entered  the  main  drive. 

"It's  a  cemetery,"  she  said. 

"Yes;  isn't  it  pretty!"  he  replied,  with  an  air  of 
convincement. 

They  travelled  one  drive,  then  another,  and  sat  down 
on  a  bench,  so  affected  by  the  rich  splendour  of  the 
grounds  that  their  hands  forgot  their  clasp. 

"Look,  look !"  A  procession  turned  the  corner  and 
went  by.  The  hearse  was  covered  with  a  white  cloth. 
Their  hands  sought  and  seized  each  other  again,  and 
by  reason  of  that  wonder-working  clasp  they  imagined 
another  procession,  a  pretty  one,  a  momentous  and 


68  WE  OTHERS 

trembling  procession,  and  one  which  they  should  lead 
— she,  wedded,  and  he  the  married  also. 

It  was  so  natural,  so  right,  to  replace  the  passing 
procession  by  the  one  which  should  be,  that  they  had 
no  need  to  speak  of  the  dream  ere  they  could  share  it 
and  believe  in  it.  When  they  got  up  to  go,  the  first 
steps  they  took/  side  by  side,  were  slow  as  in  the 
nuptial  aisle. 

With  beaming  faces  they  left  the  cemetery  and  fol- 
lowed the  white  wall. 

On  a  milestone  hard  by  a  man  was  seated  before 
an  organ,  and  they  drew  near  as  he  played. 

It  was  the  great  funeral  march,  the  most  heart-rend- 
ing De  Profundis  that  earthly  sorrow  has  chanced  to 
utter,  a  lamentation  so  immense  and  sinister  that  it 
even  mingles  the  living  with  the  dead  and  falls  on  our 
faces  like  an  ice-cold  mask. 

The  couple  stopped,  enchanted,  and  looked  at  each 
other  festively.  "How  nice  music  is!"  she  whispered 
between  her  little  teeth,  and  all  attention. 

"Come,"  he  murmured  at  last. 

They  went  away  with  a  lightsome  and  joyous  step, 
keeping  merry  time  with  the  most  hopeless  of  human 
music,  smiling,  chirping,  finding  good  to  say  of  what 
was  ugly — unconscious  of  all  their  childish  lips  were 
saying,  unconscious  of  all  their  warm  hearts  were 
creating. 


THE  WAY  THEY  WENT 

ON  the  crest  of  the  long  round  hill  that  dominated 
the  village  there  was  only  one  house. 

It  was  placed  just  in  the  middle  of  the  road  that 
skirted  the  summit,  so  that  when  one  had  followed  the 
road  so  far,  he  was  obliged  either  to  go  back  or  enter 
the  house. 

This  anomaly,  a  house  completely  obstructing  a 
parish  road  (which  went  on  again  afterwards),  was 
not  considered  important  in  the  sluggish  district  of 
Ste  Patenne.  Besides,  this  bordering  by-road  was  al- 
most as  deserted  between  morning  and  night  as  be- 
tween night  and  morning. 

In  the  scanty  compass  of  this  house,  whose  position 
gave  it  the  same  prominence  in  the  place  as  the  ven- 
erable nose  of  its  church  does  to  a  city's  outline,  a 
couple  lived.  They  were  reserved  and  silent  folk, 
who  worked  all  day  in  the  town,  and  had  hardly 
enough  leisure  to  sit  in  the  tiny  blossoming  enclosure 
that  embellished  the  house  like  a  drawing-room. 

This  husband  and  this  wife  had  not  been  cast  in  the 
same  mould,  not  by  much.  He  had  a  pointed  nose 
between  his  greenish  eyes,  a  receding  chin,  hemp-col- 
oured hair,  and  a  firm  and  rosy  skin.  She,  of  a  nim- 
ble insignificance  which  contrasted  with  the  loose  bulk 
of  her  man,  was  adorned  with  a  dull  complexion  and 
a  head  of  the  finest  hair,  black  and  silky.  In  short, 

69 


70  WE  OTHERS 

they  were  Day  and  Night  from  the  head  to  the  feet. 
But  these  details  matter  little.  What  specially  marked 
them  out  was  that  they  lived  as  though  fastened  to- 
gether. One  never  saw  them  apart.  As  soon  as  they 
were  a  little  separated,  inevitably  they  looked  at  each 
other.  They  laughed  or  smiled  at  the  same  time,  not 
in  order  to  be  alike,  but  because  they  were  actually 
alike ;  and  their  eyes,  which  were  as  dissimilar  as  one 
can  describe,  had  a  look  so  similar  that  it  was  a  miracle 
of  a  look. 

These  people  liked  each  other  too  much  for  the 
taste  of  public  opinion.  Although  they  were  born  of 
the  countryside,  and  both  their  surname  and  their 
Christian  names  abounded  through  the  district,  they 
had  become  strangers,  thanks  to  their  self -preference 
and  consecration  to  each  other.  This  attitude  had 
naturally  given  displeasure,  like  all  that  which  is  ex- 
aggerated. Then  it  had  come  to  be  accepted,  because 
they  were  obliging,  and  also  because  one  was  forced 
to  accept  it,  and  above  all  because  one  knew  well  that 
it  would  not  go  on  always. 

From  their  house,  which  was  brown  as  an  old  chest, 
they  set  off  every  morning  for  Tholozan,  a  league  and 
a  half  away.  In  the  main  street  of  the  town  they 
parted  with  a  sort  of  careful  awkwardness — they  had 
been  noticed — as  though  it  were  always  the  first  time. 
In  front  of  the  Manoury  shops  he  left  his  wife.  At 
six  in  the  evening  he  picked  her  up  again  there,  in  the 
shadow  of  the  commercial  porch,  like  a  watchful  men- 
dicant, and  shivering  at  his  absence. 

The  village  people  watched  them  return  every  even- 
ing. In  winter  you  could  only  see  the  dance  of  their 


THE  WAY  THEY  WENT  71 

lantern,  as  little  as  a  real  star.  In  summer  they  out- 
lined themselves  in  slender  silhouettes  above  the  dark 
cloud  of  the  hill,  against  the  sunset.  They  took  each 
other's  arm,  and  even  the  hand.  They  advanced  with 
a  solemn  step,  as  though  they  were  returning  from 
the  end  of  the  world,  and  they  always  looked  as 
though  they  brought  big  news. 

"There  they  are!"  growled  Gaspard. 

"How  they  stick  to  each  other!"  said  La  Miette. 

"Yes,"  assented  the  aged  Remy  woman.  On  great 
occasions  she  was  still  able  to  let  that  big  word  pass 
her  white  lips  and  bony  gums :  "yes." 

"Ah !"  murmured  Mademoiselle  Tindare,  who  by 
the  fact  of  her  age  would  have  been  a  great-grand- 
mother if  ever  she  had  been  a  wife. 

The  Gibiers'  son,  that  bag  of  vices,  that  dirty  good- 
for-nothing,  opened  his  mouth  wide,  but  could  not  find 
to  throw  out  of  it  any  of  those  rude  remarks  in  which 
he  was  neither  poor  nor  frugal !  Assuredly,  one  could 
not  shout  all  he  would  like  to  in  the  presence  of  people 
so  madly  blended  in  the  purple  scene  of  sunset.  One 
could  not. 

Thus  it  was  that  they  set  off  and  returned  each  day, 
above  the  village  and  its  dwellers.  Thus  it  was  that 
they  went  away  that  day — that  day  of  the  fire. 

It  broke  out,  terribly,  at  ten  in  the  forenoon.  Ap- 
parently it  originated  with  a  grindstone,  from  which 
the  wind  scattered  some  glowing  spray  on  the  wooden 
house. 

However  that  may  be,  the  house  was  consumed  sa 
completely  and  so  quickly  that  nothing  was  left  of 
what  it  had  held.  Buckets  of  water  only  cooled  the 


72  WE  OTHERS 

ends  of  charred  beams  among  the  crashing  framework. 
On  either  side  of  the  road  they  drew  back  the  poor 
heap  of  rubbish ;  and  alone  among  the  ashes  the  skele- 
ton of  an  iron  bedstead  had  human  shape. 

The  most  surprising  thing  was  that  no  one,  during 
the  fire,  went  to  Tholozan  to  tell  the  inhabitants  of  the 
destroyed  dwelling,  and  that  no  one  went  afterwards. 

"They'll  know  soon  enough,"  hazarded  an  old  wife. 

"Yes,"  replied  Mother  Remy,  applying  once  more 
the  monotonous  cry  that  was  choked  with  tremendous 
truth  and  greedy  of  it. 

When  the  evening  fell  that  would  bring  the  victims 
back,  a  certain  excitement  prevailed  in  the  village. 
Faces  appeared  in  the  dark  doorways,  drawn  by  curi- 
osity and  fear,  and  then  gathered  in  the  market-place, 
though  never  did  a  messenger  break  away  from  the 
darkling  group.  But  eyes  looked  up  towards  heaven 
and  the  top  of  the  hill,  like  those  of  night-imprisoned 
crowds  who  came  together  to  await  a  meteor. 

Gaspard  growled  very  quietly,  "There  they  are!" 

Two  women  were  so  distracted  that  they  exclaimed 
together,  "It's  impossible!" 

Afar  on  the  reddening  heights  they  made  their  twin 
appearance.  One  saw  at  once  that  they  knew  nothing 
of  the  disaster,  for  they  were  making  their  way  to- 
wards the  yawning  place,  the  site  of  their  house,  with 
steps  as  tranquil  as  ever. 

The  darkened  watchers  down  below  grew  more  agi- 
tated. The  two  condemned,  going  to  meet  the  punish- 
ment that  misfortune  had  prepared  for  them,  were 
talking  to  each  other,  and  although  quite  near  they 


THE  WAY  THEY  WENT  73 

saw  nothing  yet,  so  much  were  they  engrossed  with 
themselves  and  their  solitude. 

They  drew  nearer  and  nearer.  And  now  they  have 
raised  their  heads  and  looked  before  them. 

But  neither  at  that  moment  did  they  see  anything. 
No  doubt  they  were  thinking  of  each  other  as  deeply 
as  if  they  were  talking  face  to  face.  They  were  smil- 
ing exactly  the  same  smile.  Did  one  see  or  did  one 
guess  that  smile,  that  poor  and  melancholy  aureole 
which  lends  added  beauty  to  human  faces?  Visible 
or  invisible,  one  believed  it  was  there. 

Some  moments  passed,  and  the  man  and  the  woman 
went  on  between  the  two  heaps  of  ruins  without  no- 
ticing them ;  and  they  continued  to  walk,  incapable  of 
seeing  what  lay  at  their  feet,  and  disappeared  on  the 
other  side  in  the  glory  of  the  sun. 

The  faces  of  the  watchers  gazed  at  each  other  in 
the  twilight — stupefied  but  fascinated. 

La  Miette  was  full  of  words  far  too  simple  for  her 
to  say;  she  could  only  move  her  lips.  But  the  old 
Remy  woman  made  her  a  gentle  gesture  that  meant 
"yes." 

"Yes,  yes,"  the  others  thought  and  dreamed;  "yes, 
evidently.  They  are  somewhere  else,  so  they  haven't 
seen  anything.  Yes ;  their  road  is  wide  open  and  they 
are  following  it,  that's  all.  Yes,  it  is  quite  natural 
they  didn't  stop  at  their  house,  seeing  it's  no  longer 
there." 


A  TALE  OF  FOUR 

VERY  evening,  at  this  corner  of  the  two  avenues 
and  not  far  from  the  lighted  gas-lamp,  a  young 
man  took  his  stand.  He  was  dismal,  narrow,  and 
dark,  like  a  gas-lamp  gone  out 

To  the  same  place  he  came  every  day  at  the  same 
hour,  and  walked  about  for  a  long  time,  venturing 
glances  to  this  side  and  that,  looking  everywhere  for 
some  one,  staring  at  the  passers-by,  the  trees,  and  the 
walls.  A  tawny  overcoat,  turning  green,  hung  from 
his  meagre  shoulders  as  if  they  had  been  bat-pegs. 
By  the  light  that  fell  on  him  from  the  street-lamp  one 
glimpsed  a  slight  and  mournful  beard  on  a  protuber- 
ance of  yellow  cheek,  or  a  corner  of  his  forehead  to 
which  the  light  from  some  office  window  had  managed 
to  lend  the  pallor  of  paper.  Even  when  the  evening 
was  fine  and  the  air  kindly,  this  emaciated  wayfarer, 
so  timidly  beached  on  the  pavement's  edge  amid  the 
flood  of  the  others,  seemed  like  one  shipwrecked,  ques- 
tioning the  whole  world. 

But  at  a  certain  moment  one  noticed  that  he  straight- 
ened himself,  so  that  a  gleam  of  light  illumined  him. 

For  a  woman  was  walking  delicately  towards  him 
on  the  pavement.  She  stopped  under  his  nose,  like  a 
rose,  showed  him  her  shining  teeth,  shook  her  neck  in 
her  feathery  collarette,  and  carolled  him  a  little  greet- 
ing. For  his  part,  he  began  to  smile,  an  unending 

74 


A  TALE  OF  FOUR  yf 

smile,  big  and  leisurely.  He  poised  above  her,  and 
trembled  like  a  drowning  man  who  is  pulled  out  and 
set  upright.  She  was  radiant,  perfect,  pretty,  al- 
though poorly  dressed.  There  was  a  remarkable  con- 
trast between  the  richness  of  what  she  was  and  the 
poverty  of  what  she  wore.  She  seemed  as  if  dis- 
guised, like  a  fairy  of  the  stage.  Her  eyes  and  her 
lips  made  one  think  of  lost  jewels. 

The  man,  his  petition  granted  by  this  arrival,  re- 
covered himself  at  last  from  his  rapture,  and  learning 
again  to  speak,  some  words  returned  to  his  lips.  He 
took  the  young  girl's  arm,  and  they  moved  away  with 
her  delicacy  and  his  attenuation — so  slender  both  that 
one  would  say  from  a  distance  they  were  a  single  be- 
ing torn  in  two. 

Now,  at  a  hundred  paces  from  there,  also  motion- 
less in  the  crowd's  tangled  ebb  and  flow,  a  young 
woman  used  to  wait  for  some  one  every  evening. 

She  always  arrived  too  early,  for  at  first  she  sought 
nothing,  and  began  by  slowly  circling  the  newspaper 
Kiosk. 

She  wore  a  coat  and  skirt  of  dull  grey,  a  hue  of 
nameless  mourning.  Her  only  adornment  was  a  blue 
ribbon  in  her  hat.  In  the  sudden  harsh  light  of  the 
tram-car  that  glided  over  the  roadway  she  showed  an 
irregular  and  faded  face,  pierced  by  eyes  too  little, 
deformed  by  a  nose  too  long,  cloven  by  a  mouth  too 
wide.  Sometimes  she  yawned,  when  her  long  teeth 
made  her  look  ferocious,  and  then  the  dull  eyelids  flut- 
tered, and  watered  in  weariness.  Now  and  again 
she  would  become  suddenly  alert  and  erect,  as  though 
wakened.  With  effort  renewed,  she  then  walked 


/6  WE  OTHERS 

more  briskly,  swinging  her  right  hand,  tightly  closed 
on  the  bony  handle  of  her  umbrella,  and  her  left  hand, 
which  took  the  impress  of  her  hand-bag  cords. 

Behold  her  then  suddenly  transformed!  Her  eyes 
began  to  light  up  her  face  like  stars,  her  lips  to  move 
in  silent  speech,  like  those  that  pray. 

For  yonder  a  man  was  turning  into  the  square.  He 
crossed  it  and  drew  near  leisurely.  He  was  a  splendid 
fellow,  broad,  of  strong  shoulders,  radiant  cheeks,  and 
big  fair  moustaches,  solid  and  golden. 

He  came  up  to  her  and  nodded.  She  did  not  move 
at  first,  as  though  bewildered,  but  her  hands  trembled 
like  the  tips  of  little  wings.  He  said  nothing;  she 
could  not.  In  ultimate  decision  she  put  out  her  hand 
and  grasped  his  arm,  cautiously,  because  of  his 
strength  and  immense  fascination.  They  went  away. 
She  pressed  close  to  him  with  all  her  might,  but  feebly, 
as  a  grandmother  might.  He  walked  with  such  strong 
assurance  that  he  did  not  seem  to  notice  her. 

Such  was  the  double  meeting  of  which  I  was  witness 
every  evening,  being  similarly  occupied  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood at  the  time  when  the  two  couples  formed 
themselves,  and  were  dissolved  and  submerged  in  the 
multitude. 

As  in  a  sort  of  expiring  novelette,  I  used  every  time 
to  read  the  continuation  of  these  two  love-stories  on 
the  faces — languid  and  then  triumphant — of  the  man 
in  the  fawn  overcoat  and  the  woman  with  the  blue 
ribbon. 

Both  had  found  a  companion  to  illumine  their  lives, 
a  face  for  their  own  transfiguration.  Ugly  and  un- 
sightly as  both  were,  they  had  succeeded  in  securing 


A  TALE  OF  FOUR  77 

from  among  the  host  of  men  and  women  some  one 
who  was  worth  more  than  themselves. 

And  I  used  to  say  to  myself  that  these  two  idylls 
would  not  last,  that  they  were  too  fragile  and,  as  it 
were,  unhealthy,  for  the  reason  that,  in  each  of  these 
couples,  the  one  had  too  great  a  need  of  the  other,  that 
their  destitution  and  their  relief  were  too  great. 

It  could  only  have  been  for  poor  and  fleeting  rea- 
sons— a  bit  of  compassion  or  of  chance — that  fate  had 
lent  to  the  miserable  work-girl  the  man  with  the  beau- 
tiful moustaches,  and  to  the  blossoming  girl  the  un- 
fortunate spectre  whose  company  almost  made  her 
ridiculous. 

Doubtless  the  fine  gentleman  deemed  it  convenient 
and  profitable  for  the  moment  to  be  adored  by  a  fer- 
vent and  slavish  heart;  but  he  was  watched  for  by  the 
beautiful  and  generous  women  of  the  world.  Doubt- 
less the  shop-girl,  so  young  yet  and  so  innocent,  was 
yielding  to  a  first  blind  desire  for  love;  but  she  was 
fated  to  prefer,  sooner  or  later,  any  one  at  all  rather 
than  him  who  nightly  begged  for  her  at  the  corner  of 
the  street. 

Such  were  the  thoughts  that  the  spectacle  of  the 
regular  rendezvous  suggested  to  my  observant  mind. 

Well,  I  was  right.  The  matter  was  badly  arranged 
— as  is  usual  in  life,  where  everything  happens  as  pite- 
ously  as  possible ;  or  as  in  worthless  novelettes,  which 
allow  you  from  the  beginning  to  guess  the  end. 

The  end?  It  was  not  long  in  coming.  One  day, 
after  a  short  absence  from  town,  I  was  pacing  the 
usual  sidewalk,  much  later  than  usual.  The  fawn 
overcoat  was  waiting,  alone.  At  the  other  place  the 


78  WE  OTHERS 

woman  topped  by  a  scrap  of  blue  ribbon  was  also  aban- 
doned to  herself. 

The  next  day  also  I  crossed  the  path  of  these  two 
solitudes.  He,  his  eyes  wandering  over  the  swarming 
humanity,  looked  without  end  for  her  who  did  not 
come.  Among  strangers  living  and  hurtying,  with  his 
shiny  overcoat  and  the  shoulders  that  drooped  in  the 
form  of  an  extinguisher,  he  seemed  the  dismal  statue 
of  mediocrity  punished. 

She — her  looks  no  longer  rose  so  high  as  faces,  but 
trailed  on  the  ground  in  complete  subjection  and 
watched  the  running  gutter — a  narrow  river  of  mud, 
as  mournful  as  the  bigger  ones,  but  not  big  enough 
to  drown  one's  self.  Reducing  my  pace,  I  made  out 
the  profile  of  her  expressionless  and  ruined  face,  her 
bosom  flat  as  a  slab,  her  great  mouth,  neglected  and 
fruitless. 

Instinctively  I  stopped  midway  between  the  two  un- 
known with  the  visible  wounds. 

Too  much  left  behind  to  be  able  to  give  up  waiting, 
yet  no  longer  knowing  how  to  wait,  each  of  them 
broke  away  a  little  from  the  place  of  rendezvous. 

Backwards  she  moved  from  the  shadow  of  the 
Kiosk,  then  returned,  and  went  slowly  down  the  ave- 
nue. He  went  up  it,  mechanically,  after  retiring  ob- 
liquely from  the  edge  of  the  sidewalk. 

With  dispiriting  slowness  they  went  towards  each 
other. 

It  seemed  curious  to  me  then,  but  affecting,  that  fate 
should  thus  be  driving  these  two  halves  of  love  to- 
wards the  same  point.  On  the  dark  stones  of  the 
half -deserted  footpath  they  were  fated  to  meet.  Who 


A  TALE  OF  FOUR  79 

could  say  if  these  two  mourners,  these  strangers  of 
bleeding  heart,  would  not  find  relief  in  recognition? 
Who  knew  if  these  two  survivors  would  not  replace 
by  each  other  the  two  who  had  disappeared,  the  two 
of  old  elected  in  a  flash  of  too  beautiful  folly? 

They  arrived  in  front  of  each  other,  exactly.  They 
lifted  their  eyes;  they  saw  each  other;  and  quickly 
they  turned  away  their  heads. 

Ah,  they  did  in  fact  recognise  each  other !  But  also 
they  recognised  their  pitiful  unpardonable  ugliness, 
their  crime  of  ugliness.  And  I  shall  never  forget  the 
look  exchanged,  a  look  that  was  full  of  savage  hatred 
and  of  a  dreadful  curse! 


THE  FAIRY  TALE 

I"  S  it  true  that  there  are  people  who  go  to  sleep 
•*•  for  twenty  years  and  wake  up  suddenly  with 
a  white  beard?"  asked  Eugene,  as  he  left  off  reading 
and  turned  towards  his  parents  his  dunce's  face,  with 
its  tiny  forehead. 

"No!"  growled  Paul. 

"Children  are  stupid!"  sighed  Caroline  maternally, 
as  she  quickened  her  sewing. 

Into  the  crowds  of  fairies  and  wizards  that  swarmed 
over  the  pages  of  his  book  the  family  heir  again 
plunged  his  knife-like  profile;  and  while  his  pointed 
and  shaggy  head  moved  to  and  fro  in  enthralment, 
his  father  resumed  the  reading  of  his  paper  and  his 
mother  began  again  to  hem  the  last  edge  of  a  duster, 
which  as  she  stretched  it  out  exhaled  the  linen- 
draper. 

Five  minutes  later  Papa,  having  absorbed  the  last 
item  of  news  with  his  big  myopic  eyes,  folded  his 
paper  and  put  it  down,  yawned,  and  in  an  effort  to 
speak  while  yawning,  whinnied  the  remark,  "We,  too, 
were  stupid  at  that  age." 

"It's  a  fine  long  time  since  then,"  said  Caroline, 
whose  voice  was  expressionless,  though  she  sewed 
with  conviction.  Some  fifty  years  had  tarnished  her 
hair  with  grey  arid  enshrouded  her  in  fat.  One  could 
presage  the  total  disablement  of  her  old  age.  Yet 

80 


THE  FAIRY  TALE  81 

over  her  balloon-like  face  there  floated  a  faint  but 
perpetual  smile. 

Her  husband,  who  resembled  her  as  a  brother  might, 
admitted  a  series  of  black  yawns  into  the  pale  and 
rounded  mask  of  his  face;  and  then,  tearfully  com- 
posed, listened  to  his  son,  who  snored  open-mouthed 
as  he  read,  thanks  to  the  prodigious  growths  which 
next  year  would  see  removed  by  operation.  The  child 
was  prone  in  provocative  absorption,  and  the  noise 
that  he  made  in  turning  the  pages  from  time  to  time 
became  intolerable. 

"Go  to  bed!"  said  Papa  suddenly.  "It's  past  the 
time.  Come — off  you  go  !" 

Torn  from  his  book,  the  child  raised  a  fearful  and 
malevolent  eye  towards  his  progenitor,  sniffed,  and  got 
up  regretfully,  mumbling  between  his  teeth  a  rude  re- 
mark, which,  though  he  alone  heard  it,  would  enable 
him  to  boast  about  it  next  day  at  school. 

With  laggard  feet  he  went  to  bid  his  parents  good- 
night. His  face  was  thin  and  bloodless,  suggesting 
a  vegetable;  his  look  was  so  meek  that  it  made  him 
squint.  Behind  his  big  pinafore,  his  loose-hanging 
jacket  and  dangling  knickers,  one  divined  a  frail  body, 
insufficiently  fortified  with  cod  liver  oil. 

Alone  with  his  wife,  Paul  spoke  of  a  new  line  of 
tramway.  She  appeared  interested,  receptive;  and 
then  met  his  move  with  a  copious  account  of  the  dis- 
putes between  the  charwoman  and  an  aggressive  aunt, 
arrived  from  Poitou.  Thereafter  she  embarked  upon 
an  account  and  vindication  of  her  day's  work.  The 
man  looked  at  his  wife  with  stupid  attention,  yawning. 

"Speaking  of  that,"  she  said  irrelevantly,  "I  found 


82  WE  OTHERS 

this  while  looking  inside  the  clock,  between  the  base 
and  the  works.  Some  old  stuff." 

She  fumbled  in  her  bag  and  placed  some  folded 
papers  on  the  table. 

He  bent  over  the  slender  relics  and  said,  "What 
is  it?" 

"Some  letters/'  said  Caroline. 

"Well,  what  letters?" 

"Some  letters  we  wrote  to  each  other  before  we 
were  married." 

"Not  really?"  Surprised  and  amused,  he  extended 
a  finger  to  touch  the  bits  of  paper,  and  his  fleshy  face 
drew  quite  near  to  them,  in  sniffing  question.  "Ah! 
And  what's  this  on  them?  Ribbons?" 

"Yes.  There's  one  from  me  with  a  pink  one  and 
one  from  you  with  a  blue  one.  You  know  we  used  to 
put  ribbons  on  them." 

"By  Jove,  that's  true!  Now  I'd  forgotten  that  rib- 
bon trick." 

"So  had  I,  you  may  be  sure,"  said  Caroline,  "but 
I  remembered  when  I  saw  them." 

"And  what  did  we  say  in  them?"  asked  the  hus- 
band, his  plump  fingers  going  forth  over  the  table  to 
seize  the  flimsy  paper  jetsam. 

"How  should  I  know?"  she  replied. 

He  unfolded  one  of  the  letters,  as  awkwardly  as 
if  he  were  handling  some  delicate  insect  and  trying  to 
make  it  open  its  wings  wide. 

Something  fell  from  it  in  flakes,  and  one  of  his 
eyes  dilated — "What's  that  now?"  He  let  loose  a 
great  laugh — "Rose  leaves,  my  word !  They're  twenty- 


THE  FAIRY  TALE  83 

six  years  old,  no  doubt  about  it.  I  sent  you  some 
rose  leaves,  that's  all!" 

Back  into  the  envelope — equally  withered — he  put 
the  petal  scraps. 

The  woman  had  become  soberly  silent.  Chance  had 
turned  her  to-night  towards  the  past,  and  she  seemed 
willing  to  remember.  And  as  the  letter  lay  motion- 
less and  wordless  in  his  hand,  he  drew  it  nearer  his 
eyes,  read  the  date  in  a  whisper,  and  then,  half  aloud, 
the  first  words — "My  adorable  love!" 

The  man  faltered  over  his  letter  of  long  ago  as  a 
child  over  the  puzzle  of  the  alphabet.  He  recognised 
nothing  in  it  all.  As  he  heard  these  new  things,  he 
rolled  his  round  eyes  in  their  bulging  lids. 

At  the  foot  of  the  page  he  stopped  to  take  breath; 
he  prepared  to  speak,  but  could  not,  and  coughed. 

"And  then?"   she  demanded. 

He  set  himself  anew  to  spell  out  and  learn  again 
his  letter.  As  for  her,  she  had  pushed  up  quite  near. 
The  square  of  linen  that  busied  her  a  moment  ago 
slipped  from  her  lap,  and  she  did  not  pick  it  up.  With 
hands  and  mouth  half  open,  and  the  eyebrows  con- 
tracted to  the  utmost  on  her  soft  white  forehead,  she 
listened;  she  listened  hard. 

Of  a  sudden  the  letter  uttered  two  names,  "Lolo 
and  Liline." 

"Lolo  and  Liline!"  he  tittered.     "What's  that?" 

"It's  us,"  she  answered  simply. 

He  continued  his  reading,  but  broke  off  abruptly  in 
the  middle  of  a  sentence,  full  of  quite  obscure  al- 
lusions— "We  don't  know  the  meaning " 

With  that  profoundness  which  the  heart  of  woman 


84  WE  OTHERS 

sometimes  reveals  she  replied:  "It's  worse  than  that; 
we  no  longer  know  the  meaning." 

He  threw  on  the  table  the  letter  that  could  not  rise 
from  the  dead.  Willy-nilly  she  reached  out  for  her 
letter,  her  own,  and  read  it  aloud  in  her  turn  with 
strange  attention. 

The  letter  revealed  her  in  melancholy  mood.  Af- 
fectionate fiancee  as  she  was,  on  that  far-off  day  she 
had  written  of  solemn  things,  and  besought  her  lover 
to  cherish  her  closely,  having  that  ultimate  parting 
in  mind  which  would  come  sooner  or  later. 

At  these  words  the  big  man  jumped  in  his  chair 
and  growled,  "Eh,  what?  Die?  We,  I?"  He  ges- 
tured dissent,  with  the  desperation  of  one  who  cries 
from  a  shipwreck.  "It's  not  true!"  he  said.  An  in- 
definable dread  seemed  really  to  waken  him,  at  last 
to  waken  him.  She — she  was  a  little  more  heart-rent 
than  he.  They  stared  at  each  other  then,  and  for  the 
first  time  in  so  many  years  they  found  themselves  truly 
face  to  face  again;  they  recognised  each  other  con- 
fusedly, as  they  were  once  upon  a  time,  as  they  were 
in  reality.  A  world  of  formless  and  voiceless  thoughts 
stirred  within  them. 

"We  change  and  forget  ourselves.  Such  is  habit!" 
stammered  one  of  the  voices. 

"Habit!  I  had  no  idea  it  could  become  so  strong!" 

As  a  sudden  idea  illuminated  the  woman,  she  panted, 
"Why,  what  the  boy  was  saying  from  his  fairy  tale! 
There  are  people  who  go  to  sleep  for  twenty  years, 
eh?" 

But  the  man  cried,  already  half  emerged  from  the 
dream,  "Nonsense!  It's  not  the  same  thing!" 


THE  FAIRY  TALE  85 

"Yes,  it  is!  We  go  to  sleep — we  go  to  sleep  side 
by  side."  She  lowered  her  voice.  "We  go  to  sleep 
like  that;  by  night  at  first,  and  then  in  the  daytime." 

Then  she  nodded  her  head,  and  after  some  moments 
longer,  changed,  hurt,  and  doleful,  she  added,  "Ah, 
if  we  could  wake  up  again!" 

He  had  risen,  pacified,  relapsed  into  his  perpetual 
calm.  He  was  straightening  the  chairs.  But  he  mum- 
bled, "It  would  be  too  good." 

She  took  the  lamp  to  follow  him  into  the  bedroom, 
already  docile  as  before,  and  even  sleepy;  but  still  a 
little  dazzled  by  the  things  that  are  impossible — be- 
cause they  would  be  too  good. 


RESURRECTION 

CJO  much  this  drawing-room  resembled  an  an- 
^  cient  print,  with  its  old-fashioned  furniture,  the 
knickknacks  that  breathed  survival,  its  antique  and 
insipid  colours,  that  it  made  you  look  instinctively  for 
its  old  frame. 

In  the  middle  of  the  mahogany  table  and  of  the 
room,  on  a  square  of  canvas,  stood  a  cylindrical  lamp, 
whose  cardboard  shade  cut  into  its  cold  and  winterly 
gleams.  This  feeble  light  reached  the  monotonous 
face  of  the  glass-shaded  clock,  the  harsh  green  serge 
of  the  mantelpiece  and  its  woolly  fringe,  the  armchairs 
in  red  damask  that  stood  in  rows  against  the  poppy- 
coloured  wall  paper.  More  weakly  it  touched  the 
moss-green  carpet,  all  quilted  with  textile  flowers. 

The  old  gentleman  in  the  armchair  said  in  a  sub- 
dued voice  to  the  old  lady  who  watched  him  on  the 
other  side  of  the  table,  "What  is  there  in  the  paper?" 

"Wait,"  droned  the  old  lady,  "wait  a  minute." 

They  settled  down,  she  to  read,  he  to  listen.  With 
meticulous  precaution  he  wrapped  himself  up  in  his 
soft  and  silent  dressing-gown;  and  out  of  its  form- 
less folds  he  thrust  a  head  so  old  that  one  could  no 
longer  guess  whether  he  had  formerly  been  soldier, 
artiste,  or  employee. 

The  old  lady  moved  her  chair,  and  her  silk  dress 
made  a  noise  of  dead  leaves.  Then  she  raised  the 

86 


RESURRECTION  87 

newspaper  till  it  threw  a  pale  reflection  on  her  face — 
which  also  seemed  to  be  drawn  on  delicate  paper,  and 
would  change  no  more  until  the  last  tragic  and  pro- 
digious change. 

They  were  as  well  behaved  as  thoughtful  children. 
Especially  were  they  made  up  of  tricks  and  habits 
that  in  a  light  and  almost  frivolous  way  had  floated 
on  from  the  shipwreck  of  their  lives. 

Though  they  performed  this  reading  of  the  paper 
every  evening,  she  from  eight  to  nine,  and  he  from 
nine  to  ten,  they  grasped  no  new  things,  for  they 
could  no  longer  learn.  What  they  best  understood 
were  the  accidents,  those  brief  and  dreadful  dramas, 
too  quickly  told  to  make  one  cry,  too  many  to  be 
deeply  pondered,  which  always  have  been  and  always 
will  be. 

She  read :  "  'They  pulled  him  out  of  the  ruins.  His 
chest  was  crushed.  The  grief  of  the  parents  is  inde- 
scribable.' " 

"The  unfortunate  man!"  he  observed,  with  tran- 
quillity, with  ignorance;  "how  old  was  he?" 

She  sought  carefully  among  the  lines  that  danced  a 
little:  "It  doesn't  say.  Ah,  yes!  Twenty.  'Jean 
Rimel,  the  victim,  was  twenty  years  old,  and  was 
engaged  to  be  married.' ' 

"Twenty!    Then  that's  exactly  like  Julien,  eh?" 

A  silence  followed,  in  which  they  called  up,  among 
the  great  multitude  of  dead  that  they  comprised,  the 
far-off  young  man,  the  friend  of  their  youth. 

"How  long  ago  was  that?"  asked  the  old  man,  his 
forehead  labouring  in  the  quest. 

"Julien?    It's  forty  years  since,"  she  said. 


88  WE  OTHERS 

"Ah!"  he  replied. 

Again,  nothing.  Then  the  voice  of  the  old  lady, 
whose  lips  had  been  moving  for  a  moment,  arose  trem- 
blingly— "Julien!  Julien!"  she  said. 

The  little  old  man  jumped  slightly,  for  she  said  that 
in  a  curious,  unfamiliar  tone.  "Why  do  you  call 
him?"  he  asked,  dimly  awakened  from  himself,  sur- 
prised, and  even  uneasy. 

She  had  laid  the  paper  down  on  the  table,  put  her 
pearly  old  hands,  with  their  wrists  like  dry  wood,  on 
the  top  of  it,  and  was  looking  in  front  of  her.  Her 
voice  remained  tranquil  and  colourless.  But  she  said : 

"Listen.  I  may  as  well  confess  it  to  you  now — 
Julien — I  loved  him.  And  he  loved  me,  too." 

"What's  that  you  say?  You,  he?  And  what  about 
me?" 

She  was  still  looking  into  nothing,  like  a  sleep- 
walker. "I  loved  you  before,  and  after  almost  al- 
ways. But  once,  it  was  he;  a  little  before  his  death." 

He  sighed  lightly.  "Ah!"  Reflecting,  he  gradually 
brought  back  from  the  disturbance  of  this  unexpected 
news  the  face  set  eternally  opposite  his,  the  face  he 
had  so  long  and  so  closely  seen  that  it  was  in  fact  the 
mirror  of  his  own. 

"It's  no  longer  of  importance!"  one  of  them  mur- 
mured at  last. 

"No,"  said  the  other. 

All  the  same,  she  had  an  afterthought,  and  it  es- 
caped from  her  lips :  "And  you  ?  Did  you  never  have 
a  mistress?" 

At  once,  easily,  he  opened  his  old  heart  wide :  "Yes," 
he  said,  "I've  had  one." 


RESURRECTION  89 

She  shook  her  soft-featured  head:  "You,  too!  I 
should  not  have  believed  it." 

They  continued  speaking  of  themselves,  and  sought 
unknown  things,  as  one  speaks  of  strangers. 

'Then  Julien  and  you — you  had  some  meetings? 
Where  were  they?" 

"I  don't  know." 

"How  many  times?" 

"Three  times,  or  four — I  only  remember,  just  a 
little,  the  first.  And  she?  Is  she  dead?" 

"To  be  sure — a  long  time !" 

"Was  she  beautiful?" 

He  closed  his  eyes,  but  opened  them  at  once,  as  if 
he  found  it  useless:  "No  doubt — I  don't  remember 
— but  certainly  she  would  be  very  beautiful.  Since 
then  I've  only  seen  the  same  little  portrait,  always, 
and  of  course  that  portrait  blotted  her  out,  in  the  end." 

"Yes,  I  know.  He  has  disappeared  like  that,  too." 
She  added,  "How  I  loved  him!  How  I  must  have 
loved  him!" 

"We  forget  all  that,  don't  we?" 

"Yes;  we  only  know  it.    And  how  long  did  it  last?" 

"From  an  autumn  to  a  summer;  six  months.  And 
you?" 

"Not  quite  a  month.    He  died  almost  at  once." 

"And  afterwards?  You  didn't  forget  him  all  at 
once?" 

"No,  no.  I  remember  that  I  remembered — yes, 
wait!  I  was  even  on  the  point  of  killing  myself.  It 
seems  to  me,  at  least — it's  almost  conjecture  that  I'm 
making " 

"And  then— nothing?" 


90  WE  OTHERS 

"No,  nothing.     We  returned  to  each  other.'1 

"Naturally."  The  old  lady  seemed  surprised  to  have 
only  just  now  unveiled  the  secret.  "How  did  it  come 
about  that  I  saw  nothing,  nor  suspected  anything? 
One  is  stupid,  now !" 

"No,  not  stupid.  7  saw  nothing,  either.  One  took 
care,  you  know.  Do  you  remember  when  I  told  you 
I  had  to  go  to  London?" 

"You  both  went  to  London?" 

"Not  to  London— to  St.  Germain." 

"Story-teller!"  she  said,  with  menacing  finger. 
"How  I  should  have  cried  if  I'd  known!" 

"And  I — how  I  should  have  bawled,  had  I  known !" 

"Yes,"  she  murmured,  magnificently,  "we  should 
have  been  unjust  and  malicious." 

They  grew  tired  for  a  moment  of  saying  nothing. 
Then  he  ventured :  "It  must  be  late  ?" 

The  clock  marked  only  nine  o'clock.  The  double 
confession  had  all  at  once  hastened  and  aged  the  eve- 
ning. They  rose,  and  looked  at  each  other,  standing. 
It  was  then  they  realised  that  they  were  embarrassed 
in  each  other's  presence.  Nervously  he  asked,  as  he 
lowered  his  eyes,  "We've  done  right,  haven't  we,  to 
tell  all  that?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  she  assented,  "it's  better." 

They  reached  the  bedroom.  As  she  undressed  she 
said,  "So  there  have  been  for  a  long  time  these  two 
secrets  between  us — we  have  deceived  each  other — so 
our  life  has  been  different  from  what  we  thought  it 
was — it  is  a  big  change,  deep  down,  you  know." 

They  got  into  bed.    In  the  twilight  bestowed  by  the 


RESURRECTION  91 

little  lamp  in  the  middle  of  the  room,  they  fell  to 
thinking,  trying  to  remember,  trying  to  dream. 

They  did  not  sleep.  And  they  were  so  used  to  each 
other,  so  similarly  fashioned,  that  in  the  middle  of  the 
night  they  raised  themselves  together  and  called  to 
each  other  at  the  same  time  in  low  voices,  but  as  if 
they  cried  for  help.  They  showed  each  other  looks 
more  animate,  more  profound,  than  before,  with  tears 
of  resurrection  in  their  eyes. 

"It's  too  great  a  change,  isn't  it?"  she  stammered. 
"All  that  was  half  dead,  half  lost.  Ah,  we  ought  not 
to  have  told  what  we  had  done;  we  ought  not  to  have 
begun  over  agctin!" 


THE  DREAM 

T  ITTLE  by  little  they  became  sundered.  Why? 
-•-'  For  nothing.  Because  love  does  not  endure. 
From  continually  agreeing,  one  ends  by  getting  angry. 
A  dispute  arose,  which  was  the  final  rupture. 

"Good-bye!"  cried  Jeanne. 

"Good  evening!''  grinned  Gerard. 

She  went  away,  wrapped  in  her  fichu,  and  with  two 
stubborn  tears.  And  the  workman,  as  he  leaned 
against  the  wall,  followed  her  with  his  eyes,  and  an 
air  of  spiteful  victory. 

When  evening  came,  no  one  awaited  his  coming 
out  of  the  factory,  and  he  gave  a  cheerful  sigh.  When, 
at  the  end  of  the  long  street,  he  entered  the  yard  of 
Number  23,  he  rubbed  his  hands.  He  passed  between 
the  bony  posts  of  the  wooden  porch,  went  along  the 
short  paved  path  that  a  paling  and  an  old  wall  en- 
closed, and  crossed  the  gloomy  yard  where  the  glass 
door  is  squeezed  between  two  little  shops,  at  the  top 
of  its  three  steps. 

He  went  into  the  little  room  where  they  had  so 
often  hidden  to  say  so  many  things,  and  looked  at  the 
great  desert  of  it.  He  walked  stumblingly  among  the 
obscurity  in  which  they  had  so  often  submerged  them- 
selves. 

"So  much  the  better !"  he  repeated,  twisting  his  fine 

92 


THE  DREAM  93 

moustache  with  the  big  hand  that  the  day's  work  had 
turned  grey.  "Ah,  so  much  the  better!" 

All  the  same,  he  became  irritable.  He  had  nervous 
fits,  and  even  bad  tempers.  He  nearly  strangled 
Bidon,  for  nothing  at  all,  in  the  little  pointed  cafe  con- 
trived in  the  corner  of  the  Rue  des  Turcs.  He  argued 
about  politics,  with  violence  and  insincerity. 

"What's  the  matter  with  Gerard?"  they  said. 

His  aunt  Lea,  who  was  concierge  to  No.  23  and 
who  half  opened  the  glass  door  now  and  then  to  look 
in  on  him,  was  alarmed  by  the  public  talk,  and  ques- 
tioned him.  But  his  hostile  attitude  frightened  her. 

He  forsook  the  tavern,  and  began  to  spend  as  much 
time  as  possible  in  his  half -widower's  room;  and  there 
he  applied  his  attention  to  the  mournful  gleam  that 
came  through  the  glass  door.  He  seemed  to  be  wait- 
ing. 

He  was  waiting,  in  fact — for  her.  What  could  she 
be  doing  anywhere  else?  No,  it  was  impossible  that 
she  would  not  come  back — once,  at  least. 

Everything  lacked  her ;  the  furniture  they  had  once 
bought  together,  the  red  and  shining  sideboard,  the 
four  bentwood  chairs,  the  table,  covered  with  oilcloth, 
all  pointed  to  an  empty  place.  So  did  the  caged  birds, 
so  abandoned  that  they  almost  seemed  to  be  children. 

He  set  himself  furiously  to  wait,  with  grasped  fore- 
head, not  understanding  the  length  of  this  absence,  of 
the  exile's  endurance.  He  did  not  light  the  lamp  in 
the  evenings,  but  engulfed  himself  in  the  dark  of  the 
room. 

One  week,  two  weeks  went  by.  Jeanne  did  not  re- 
turn from  the  unknown.  He  asked  one  and  another 


94  WE  OTHERS 

what  had  become  of  her,  tried  to  find  out,  tried  to  pro- 
voke gossip  with  winks  of  his  eye.  They  gave  him  a 
thousand  contradictory  details.  In  reality,  they  did 
not  know. 

So  he  ceased  to  speak  of  her  to  others.  He  pre- 
ferred to  talk  to  her  directly,  that  is,  to  wait  for  her 
with  meekness,  and  do  nothing. 

And  one  night,  the  last  in  February,  when  fixed  in 
a  corner  as  in  a  niche,  he  saw  her  appear,  between 
eleven  and  midnight. 

Lightly  she  pushed  the  door  open  and  glided  into 
the  room.  She  was  hardly  visible,  clad  cloudily,  and 
her  face  a  pearl-grey.  She  seemed  like  evening  in 
night. 

She  advanced  to  the  middle  of  the  room  and  hesi- 
tated there,  irresolute.  She  was  erect,  but  hazy,  and 
he  could  not  see  her  feet  move. 

She  went  and  opened  the  lock-up  drawer  in  the  side- 
board, where  there  were  letters,  and  stooped  over 
them;  the  papers  moved.  Then  she  turned  round, 
took  two  steps,  raised  her  head,  and  looked  at  the  cage 
and  the  nest  where  the  three  fledglings  were  cuddling 
up — so  recently  imprisoned  that  their  wings  were  still 
only  little  arms.  She  unhooked  the  cage  and  put  it  on 
the  window-sill,  so  that  she  could  see  it  better. 

He  held  his  breath,  thrilled  by  the  miraculous  re- 
turn. But  little  by  little,  jerkily,  he  straightened  him- 
self. With  an  abrupt  effort  he  stood  upright,  and 
staggered  towards  the  woman  with  hands  outstretched. 
But  his  hands  passed  through  the  frail  form.  His 
voice  did  not  reach  the  apparition.  She  heard  no  more 
than  if  she  were  an  angel.  She  heeded  him  not,  but 


THE  DREAM  95 

moved  away,  fled,  vanished  at  his  touch.  She  was 
alone  and  he  was  alone. 

"Good  God!" 

Realising  that  he  was  dreaming  while  wide  awake, 
he  groaned  in  submission,  and  threw  himself  on  a  stool 
at  the  corner  of  the  table,  with  his  elbows  on  the  cloth. 
He  laid  his  face  in  his  folded  arms,  and  slept  dream- 
less at  last,  with  the  sure  tranquillity  of  the  dead. 

When  he  awoke,  it  was  late  in  the  forenoon,  near 
midday,  with  dirty  and  rainy  weather. 

Yes,  but  she  had  come!  He  rubbed  his  eyes,  and 
immediately  he  smiled. 

The  glass  door  moved  ajar,  and  Lea  revealed  her 
rough-hewn  face,  like  an  old  man's.  Emerged  from 
his  torpor,  he  looked  at  her.  "Jeannette  came  back 
last  night,"  he  said. 

"No,  my  poor  lad,"  exclaimed  the  concierge,  "she 
didn't  come,  for  I  opened  the  door  to  no  one  all 
night!"  The  old  lady  raised  her  eyes  and  her  arms 
by  way  of  compassionate  protest  against  the  madness 
of  her  nephew,  who  saw  people  that  were  not  there. 

When  she  had  gone,  he  looked  this  way  and  that,  in 
stupefaction.  He  pondered  the  peremptory  words  of 
the  concierge.  Then  with  a  sudden  shock  he  recalled 
the  apparition's  inconsistency.  No,  Jeanne  had  not 
been!  He  had  dreamed  it! 

He  strode  several  paces  in  the  room,  poorly  lighted 
by  the  dirty  sky,  and  suddenly  his  eyes  opened  wide. 
"Ah!"  he  stammered. 

The  letter-drawer,  usually  shut,  was  open.  The  let- 
ters were  scattered,  and  one  on  the  edge  was  on  the 
point  of  falling  out.  The  bird-cage  which  had  hung 


96  WE  OTHERS 

on  its  nail  the  night  before  had  been  taken  down,  and 
now  rested  on  the  window-sill.  And  there,  on  the  back 
of  a  chair,  a  ruffle  of  white  feathers  was  garlanded! 
Her  ruffle — lost  since  the  separation,  gone  away  with 
her! 

And  then — what  is  this  again?  He  inhaled  the 
lowly  air  of  the  room,  and  lo,  it  was  slightly  scented ! 
Was  it  not  the  fragrance  of  the  rose  she  wore?  Yes, 
yes! 

He  lowered  his  eyes  in  agitation.  On  the  floor  he 
saw  marks  of  footsteps,  made  by  little  shoes  that  had 
trodden  the  muddy  street.  He  laughed  and  cried. 

"She  did  come  back!  I  did  see  her!  We  are  going 
to  live  together  again." 

The  man  had  had,  in  point  of  fact,  an  illusion.  And 
yet  the  woman  had  really  been  back. 

But  it  was  not  at  the  moment  when  he  had  thought 
he  saw  her.  She  had  come  back  afterwards,  through 
the  rain  of  the  forenoon,  while  blindly  and  deafly  he 
slept.  The  vision  was  only  an  illusion ;  but  that  mad- 
ness had  justified  itself,  seeing  that  only  a  few  hours 
later  she  had  really  come — to  touch  their  things,  to 
whisper  to  the  letters,  to  see  the  bird-cage  again,  to 
sweeten  the  room  like  a  posy  of  flowers,  and  to  say 
that  she  would  like  to  come  back  to  life! 


THE  STRICKEN 

WHEN  the  wealthy  physician  informed  me — with 
or  without  considerateness ;  I  don't  remember — 
that  I  was  vaguely  consumptive,  I  replied,  "Damn  it !" 
in  a  pretty  calm  way;  but  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  I 
had  to  set  my  teeth  so  as  not  to  make  an  ugly  grimace. 

But  I  am  a  man  of  decision.  I  knew  what  to  do. 
Tormented  as  I  might  be,  at  bottom  of  my  unlucky 
carcass,  by  pangs  of  pain  and  chronic  fearfulness,  I 
closed  my  business.  I  did  not  wait  to  inform  those 
whom  I  liked  or  who  like  me — I  owed  myself  hence- 
forth to  myself — and  set  off  full  steam  ahead  for  a 
mountain  sanatorium.  In  the  afternoon  of  the  second 
day  a  funicular  railway  conducted  me  to  a  pointed 
station  that  put  a  cap  on  to  a  pallid  peak.  Pallid  my- 
self, I  got  down,  and  entered  the  sanatorium  as  others 
enter — by  dint  of  crime  rather  than  misfortune — La 
Roquette.1 

The  make-up  of  the  establishment  was  that  of  an 
hotel,  and  the  visitors,  as  they  gathered  after  meals 
in  the  great  winter-gardens  that  trembled  in  an  or- 
chestral breeze,  presented  the  appearance  of  harmless 
holiday  travellers. 

But  that  was  worldly  concealment.  The  house,  as 
a  matter  of  fact — with  its  spy-like  attendants  haunting 
the  corridors,  its  heaps  of  spare  spittoons  in  discreet 

1 A  convict  prison  in  Paris. — Tr. 

97 


98  WE  OTHERS 

corners,  its  acrid  puffs  from  the  crevices  of  rooms  in 
process  of  disinfection,  its  dramatic  circle  of  linoleum 
where  the  chief  doctor's  door  attracted  every  morning 
processions  of  colourless  spectres — was  a  hospital  in 
good  earnest.  And  each  of  those  beings,  although 
they  largely  imitated  the  free  and  easy  ways  of  sea- 
side bathers,  was  passionately  occupied  with  the  dark 
mystery  of  his  lungs. 

I  established  myself  at  the  dining-table  between  a 
Russian  and  an  Italian,  facing  a  Syrian.  From  time 
to  time  we  were  swallowed  up  by  the  loud  voice  of  the 
close-cropped  German,  or  the  bursting  laughter  of  the 
American  lady,  who  seemed  to  have  been  copied  from 
a  picture  in  some  magazine.  I  accustomed  myself  to 
hearing  our  talk,  which  turned  on  heat  and  on  cold, 
but  especially  on  our  own  morning  and  evening  tem- 
perature, and  its  flights  round  about  the  prophetic  37th 
degree.  It  turned  on  literature  and  art,  but  especially 
on  diet;  on  famous  personalities,  but  especially  on  Dr. 
Otto,  our  master,  our  nearest  deity.  Tried  we  never 
so  hard  to  get  away  from  ourselves,  we  tumbled  back 
there. 

At  the  end  of  the  first  fortnight  I  had  gained  more 
than  two  pounds  in  weight.  This  discovery  composed 
me  a  little.  I  spread  it  about.  Some  people  were  en- 
vious, but  laboriously  succeeded  in  congratulating  me; 
others  pretended,  with  no  skill,  to  believe  me. 

It  was  a  brief  respite.  The  following  week  I  gained 
no  weight,  and  there  were  vacant  seats  at  the  dinner- 
table;  Where  were  Messieurs  Schmidt,  Lorenzaccio, 
and  van  der  Bock  ?  One  dared  not  dwell  too  much  on 
the  disappearance  of  this  one,  who  had  gone  back 


THE  STRICKEN  99 

cured  to  his  corner  of  the  globe,  or  of  that  one,  who, 
on  the  other  hand,  had  been  buried.  The  month  of 
May  is  the  most  trying  of  all. 

And  yet,  in  the  middle  of  the  hypocritical  invalids 
that  we  were,  there  were  eighteen  divinely  healthy 
beings  who  performed  evolutions.  These  were  the 
waitresses,  or  servants  of  the  dinner-table.  They  were 
full-bloomed  and  charming,  and  their  graces  blended 
with  their  health  as  colours  in  light. 

They  circulated  round  the  tables  where  two  hun- 
dred patients  squatted;  they  formed  into  files,  con- 
verged as  they  went  out  with  empty  hands,  and  scat- 
tered symmetrically  as  they  came  in  adorned  with 
dishes.  Their  unison  of  movement  gave  them  the  air 
of  a  music-hall  chorus. 

I  had  never  dared  to  cast  eyes  on  these  fresh-air 
roses,  brief  captives  of  that  unwholesome  hall  where 
we  all  vegetated  with  our  empty  words  and  our  un- 
confessable  nightmares,  when  one  of  them  took  it  into 
her  head  to  smile  at  me.  She  was  not  quite  one  of 
them.  She  was  their  mistress,  their  superintendent, 
their  Queen.  Much  more,  she  was  the  loveliest — a 
sort  of  Madonna  become  a  woman,  with  an  aureole 
become  hair.  She  smiled  at  me  twice.  A  single  smile 
is  a  wayward  thing;  smiles  only  think  of  making  up 
their  minds  at  the  second  time. 

So,  without  any  sort  of  reflection,  I  was  consoled — 
nay,  rewarded! — for  my  distress  and  my  loneliness, 
for  the  accumulation  of  haunting  details,  and  even  for 
the  heavy  toil  that  I  should  have  to  face,  later,  in  or- 
der to  live  my  life  again! 

I  confess  to  you,  my  friends — I  have  only  told  you 


ioo  WE  OTHERS 

this  story  so  that  I  might  be  able  to  confess — that  I 
turned  towards  this  young  woman  completely  thrilled. 

I  met  her  as  the  chance  came,  sometimes  in  a  corri- 
dor, sometimes  in  the  hall,  or  outside,  on  the  threshold 
of  the  kitchens,  or  near  a  window,  attentive  to  some 
letter  that  brightened  her  cheek. 

I  spoke  to  her.  Miraculously  she  vouchsafed  an 
answer.  Through  the  medium  of  her  artless  retorts, 
by  the  touch  of  her  gentle  derision  and  the  smile  that 
clung  to  her,  I  discovered  that  she  was  not  indifferent. 

Naturally,  I  was  not  just  then  in  a  reasoning  con- 
dition. The  idea  did  not  occur  to  me  that  some  mate- 
rial bait  was  doubtless  tempting  her  to  turn  her  little 
shell-shaped  ear  obligingly  towards  the  expression  of 
my  emotion,  and  her  eyes  to  that  wonder  which  filled 
my  face  as  with  light  when  she  passed.  For,  to  these 
pure  little  souls  gathered  in  from  the  mountain  ham- 
lets, every  patient  is  a  millionaire. 

I  allowed  myself  to  go  and  to  take — but  suddenly 
I  had  an  awakening! 

I  made  a  conscientious  inquiry.  I  remember  it  well 
— it  was  in  my  bedroom,  at  the  end  of  a  day  when  a 
chill  had  thrown  me  back  upon  recurrent  and  keener 
anguish. 

Standing  among  my  instruments,  my  inhaler,  my 
thermometer,  my  spirit  lamp,  standing  near  my  bed, — 
the  terrible  bed  of  sweat  and  fever,  the  sleepless  bed 
— I  saw  in  the  glass  my  hawk-like,  fleshless  face,  my 
evil  leanness,  my  poisoned  mouth.  And  I  saw  that 
my  action  was  wrong. 

Ah,  how  infamous,  to  touch  with  my  desire  the 
being  who  had  brought  there  the  wonderful  virginity 


THE 

of  healthfulness,  who  made  a  spot  of  purity  among 
us,  and  to  threaten  with  an  idyll  that  angel  of  igno- 
rance ! 

How  evil  to  make  her  forget,  with  the  jar  of  a 
bad  dream,  the  corner  of  the  earth  whence  she  had 
come  as  from  a  garden,  where  doubtless  there  was 
some  one  betrothed  to  her,  as  rich  in  health  as  she  and 
as  worthy! 

I  perceived  the  crime.  Recoiling,  as  people  not  too 
stupid  can,  I  replaced  my  nervous  passion  with  a  sort 
of  boundless  tenderness,  an  infinite  hunger  of  happi- 
ness for  her. 

Henceforth  I  approached  her  with  more  of  defer- 
ence and  respect.  Hardly  daring  to  murmur  the  words 
with  my  infected  lips,  looking  at  her  feet  when  she 
answered  me,  I  asked  her  about  her  family.  I  was 
touched  by  the  story  she  told  me  of  her  grandmother, 
and  no  less  moved  by  the  troubles  of  her  sister  Ger- 
maine. 

Now,  two  weeks  after  this  victory — rather  a  noble 
one,  don't  you  think? — which  had  led  me  to  love  her 
for  her  own  sake,  I  came  on  her  in  the  glass  corridor, 
to  which  the  outer  snows  gave  a  sharp  and  marble- 
like  whiteness. 

Her  beautiful  form  was  drawn  upon  the  back- 
ground of  far-off  mountains.  Her  face,  with  its 
cheeks  like  pink  roses  and  its  mouth  like  a  red  rose, 
was  more  than  ever  that  of  a  pictured  saint  come  down 
from  its  frame.  Seeing  her  neck,  and  then  the  be- 
ginning of  her  shoulders,  one  thought  of  a  Venus  de 
Milo  with  arms,  but,  it  is  true,  with  a  corsage. 


102  WE  OTHERS 

I  stammered  a  few  words  to  her,  commiserating 
her  that  she  had  to  live  in  the  middle  of  illness. 

"But  I,  too,  I  am  very  ill,"  she  said. 

She  smiled  at  me  her  incomparable  smile. 

"Dr.  Otto  found  a  place  for  me  here  the  first  time 
I  spat  blood." 

Ah!  I  had  started  back,  hardly  stifling  a  hoarse 
cry.  I  looked  at  her.  I  looked  at  her — in  spite  of 
myself,  my  dear  friends — with  a  joy  voluptuous  and 
fierce.  I  stooped  to  the  lips  that  were  no  longer  in- 
violable. Trembling,  I  touched  with  my  eyes  her  con- 
demned body,  the  hell  that  she  was,  and  the  heaven. 


THE  FIRST  LOVE 

WHEN  we  received  the  invitation  card  announc- 
ing the  approaching  marriage  of  Dr.  Nixter 
and  Angette  de  la  Vallee,  we  all  felt  heavy  at  heart. 
It  was  worst  for  those  among  us  who  were  intimate 
friends,  and  must  be  present  at  the  ceremony. 

Both  were  young  and  good-looking.  You  could  see 
that  they  worshipped  each  other;  but  especially  could 
you  see  that  she  was  infinitely  fragile,  and  would  soon 
die. 

Under  her  falling  veil  the  young  girl  seemed  to  be 
quite  upright,  though  so  slight,  and  leaning  like  a  jet 
of  water.  Her  face?  Exquisite  as  it  was,  it  was 
masked  by  a  little  too  much  pallor,  hardened  by  a 
slight  excess  of  spareness,  and  the  smile  that  floated 
before  her  was  fearfully,  divinely  faint. 

All  that  snowiness  in  which  she  was  made  and  clad 
— that  perfect  whiteness  hardly  stained  by  a  weak 
flush  in  the  cheeks  that  each  delicate  approach  of  a 
cough  brought — was  already  unnatural ;  and  really,  as 
soon  as  she  ceased  to  move,  one  almost  felt  afraid, 
and  dared  no  longer  think  of  her. 

How  she  leaned  on  him,  and  how  serious  he  was, 
and  immovable !  Jean  Nixter  offered  one  of  the  finest 
types  of  mankind  that  could  rise  in  the  dreams  or 
brighten  the  eyes  of  lover  or  painter.  His  will  and 
his  triumphant  vitality  expanded  in  his  great  height, 

103 


104  WE  OTHERS 

his  breadth  of  shoulder,  the  splendid  regularity  of  his 
features — and  still  more  in  the  trembling  emotion 
which  inclined  him  towards  her. 

Yes,  yes;  looking  at  that  couple,  I  understood  at 
last  that  gentleness  and  tenderness  have  something 
masculine  in  them. 

They  had  always,  from  the  beginning,  worshipped 
each  other.  As  children  they  had  met  each  other  dur- 
ing several  holidays  on  the  beach  at  St.  Just,  where 
there  is  a  peaked  fountain,  a  seat,  a  tree,  and  some- 
times a  passer-by.  There  they  smiled  at  each  other 
before  they  knew  who  they  were,  sought  and  found 
each  other  often,  and  then  one  evening  kissed  each 
other  before  they  knew  what  a  kiss  was. 

In  the  days  which  followed,  thanks  to  family  prox- 
imity in  town  and  country,  they  did  not  leave  each 
other  again.  Jean  confided  to  Angette  (at  the  same 
time  as  to  himself)  his  ambitions  in  music,  and  glory, 
and  great  masterpieces,  and  Angette  learned  from 
him  all  that  she  could  look  forward  to  in  life. 

At  the  time  when  the  young  girl  was  stricken  by 
disease,  at  first  gently  and  almost  caressingly,  and 
then  when  her  health  became  definitely  impaired,  she 
was  no  orphan;  and  yet  it  was  to  him  alone  that  she 
faded,  for  him  alone  that  she  suffered. 

Since  she  got  no  better,  he  decided  to  change  his 
plans  for  the  future.  He  would  not  be  a  musician, 
but  a  doctor,  and  instead  of  writing  a  masterpiece  he 
would  cure  her. 

In  that  faith  he  laboured,  fell  furiously  upon  costly 
books,  and  learned  them  as  if  they  had  been  unending 
prayers.  As  soon  as  he  had  got  his  physician's  de- 


THE  FIRST  LOVE  105 

gree,  he  sought  to  marry  her.  Angette  had  tried  at 
first  not  to  wish  it,  knowing  that  she  was  condemned, 
but  she  was  so  loving  and  so  weak  that  she  could  not 
long  refuse. 

He  had  said,  to  parents  mournfully  irresolute  and 
to  friends  uneasily  reticent,  "I  shall  save  her !" 

So  now,  in  the  little  grey  room  at  the  town-hall 
they  both  were  passing,  in  such  union,  and  so  wrapped 
up  in  each  other,  that  when  their  looks  turned  upon 
strangers  they  seemed  to  be  blind. 

Those  strangers  were  the  relations,  and  we  their 
friends.  I  remember  that  little  Lambert  was  there,  as 
well. 

Why  had  he  had  the  idea  of  coming?  A  relation? 
No!  A  friend?  Well — none  of  us  was  ignorant  that 
he  had  asked  for  Angette' s  hand  two  years  before. 
He  had  been,  and  with  reason,  summarily  bowed  out. 
After  which,  marriage  with  an  heiress  had  made  a 
fashionable  and  triumphant  doctor  of  him,  a  savant  of 
adoration  in  drawing-rooms. 

Why  was  he  there?  Was  it  chivalrous  courtesy  or 
spiteful  cynicism?  Who  knows!  Only  is  it  certain 
that  his  artistic  face,  his  subduing  chin,  and  the  glit- 
tering black  locks  that  had  won  for  him  so  many 
patients  of  importance  were  resplendent  against  the 
dismal  wall  of  the  registrar's  room. 

However,  neither  Jean  nor  Angette  noticed  him. 
I  have  explained  the  reason  to  you. 

From  that  moment  Jean  Nixter  devoted  himself 
with  scrupulous  stubbornness  to  the  healing  of  his 
wife.  One  cannot  describe  the  eagerness  and  patience, 
the  heroic  ability  he  brought  to  bear,  the  sublime  lies 


io6  WE  OTHERS 

he  invented,  his  desperate  effort  to  solve  mysteries  and 
to  see  in  the  dark ! 

And  what  happened  ?  At  first  she  got  worse.  Then 
she  ceased  to  die.  Then,  very  gently,  very  childishly, 
she  began  again  to  live. 

They  say  that  he  transfused  his  blood  into  her.  I 
can  believe  it,  for  I  met  him  several  times  with  an 
extraordinary  look,  pale,  and  his  movements  almost 
paralytic.  They  say,  too,  that  he  hynotised  her,  and 
controlled  her  will.  I  can  believe  that,  too,  for  it  is 
certain  that  he  tried  everything. 

However  it  was,  he  saved  her. 

And  what  affection  during  that  convalescence  so 
slow  and  so  minute,  when  she  was  as  completely 
bound  to  her  splendid  friend  as  if  he  had  been  the 
mother  that  he  was!  How  their  looks  made  fathom- 
less exchange  in  those  hours  when  the  man's  hands 
enfolded  those  of  his  wife — long  hands,  yet  little  and 
white,  like  angel  twins! 

Soon  she  no  longer  need  lean  wholly  and  always 
on  him.  She  parted  a  little  from  her  great  shadow. 
It  was  enough  for  her  that  he  looked  at  her.  Then 
it  sufficed  her  that  the  sun  was  shining.  She  began 
to  risk  solitude,  to  make  trial  of  it,  as  a  young  bird 
tries  itself  in  space.  Once  when  Jean  was  away  and 
morning  was  arriving — though  it  was  gloomy  and  wet 
— she  raised  her  head  in  ecstasy,  and  only  because  of 
herself  and  life! 

Restoration,  metamorphosis!  A  sweet  new  being 
had  released  itself  from  her  and  was  taking  her  place. 
Her  body  had  won  harmony  and  completeness,  the 


THE  FIRST  LOVE  107 

lines  of  her  flesh  were  curved,  she  had  expanded  like 
a  ripe  fruit! 

When  we  caught  sight  of  her  that  season,  we  won- 
dered at  her  before  we  recognised  her,  so  thoroughly 
had  she  begun  again.  How  she  restored  the  balance 
now  with  the  strong  and  handsome  husband  who  had 
dowered  her  with  a  share  of  his  life,  his  vitality,  with 
a  part  in  the  Paradise  of  life! 

And  the  transformation  went  on,  and  continued  to 
shine  upon  her.  Her  eyes  grew  clearer ;  their  outlook 
changed,  and  her  movements,  and  her  thoughts. 

And  at  this  moment  the  disturbing  Lambert  trav- 
ersed their  destiny. 

Then — then,  she  was  fascinated  by  him.  She  tot- 
tered, decided  passionately,  and  threw  herself  at  him. 

A  hideous  and  terrible  instinct,  maybe,  but  logical. 
Had  she  not  been  changed  from  head  to  heels,  even 
to  the  shadows  of  her  flesh?  Had  she  not  become  a 
real  woman,  and  therefore  another  woman,  in  whom 
another  heart  beat  ? 

In  a  flash,  in  a  glance,  she  forgot  not  only  her  abid- 
ing adoration  of  the  other,  but  also  her  former  dis- 
like for  this  one.  If  she  thought  at  all  of  those  old 
dreams,  it  was  that  she  might  scatter  them,  might  de- 
test them !  The  past  no  longer  mattered ;  it  was  dead. 
Better  than  that,  it  had  been  killed.  Nothing  was 
left  alive  in  front  of  the  outrush  of  her  whole  being, 
renewed  and  virginal,  of  the  force  of  her  first  love. 


A  LIBATION 

GUS  PACHECO  and  I  had  become  incomparably 
friends. 

You  see  me — I  am  tall,  broad,  and  strong,  and  I 
have  big  blue  eyes.  No  doubt,  therefore,  you  are  ex- 
pecting me  to  describe  my  faithful  comrade  of  the 
pampa  as  a  little  fellow,  thin  and  weasel-faced,  seeming 
to  sparkle  all  over  with  quick  black  eyes?  For  it  is 
unheard  of,  isn't  it,  that  two  boon  companions  should 
not  be  at  the  physical  antipodes  of  each  other?  Well, 
it  was  not  so.  In  spite  of  the  unchanging  conven- 
tions of  romance,  tradition  and  literature,  we  were, 
although  perfect  friends,  perfectly  alike  in  looks. 

As  I  appear  to  your  honourable  observation,  so  my 
alter  ego  (as  bygone  Italians  used  to  say)  appeared  in 
comparison  with  me  on  the  stock-farms  of  Don  Gre- 
gorio  at  San  Juan  del  Gato — St.  John  of  the  Cat,  if 
you  are  anxious  to  know.  And  so  he  would  appear 
to-day  even,  if — if  I  had  not  a  drama  to  relate  to  you. 

Ah,  most  certainly  there  had  to  be  a  big  lot  of  gal- 
lops together  before  we  knew  each  other  and  joined 
hands  like  that,  so  little  loquacious  as  we  were.  There 
had  to  be  a  mort  of  work  in  common,  among  our  com- 
panions and  among  the  immense  herds  that  surrounded 
the  farm  like  a  scattered  ocean,  a  mort  of  adventures 
and  combats  shared,  before  we  could  thus  rub  off  be- 

108 


A  LIBATION  109 

tween  us  that  solid  mysterious  armour  in  which  every 
man  lives  confined. 

The  cause  of  that  friendship?  I  don't  know  it.  I 
can  no  more  explain  the  reason  of  it  than  that  of  day 
and  night,  which  all  the  same  I  am  forced  to  see  and 
not  to  see.  I  can  only  say  one  thing,  at  the  risk  of 
saying  it  a  hundred  times,  like  a  bigot — we  were  ex- 
tremely fond  of  each  other. 

At  the  beginning  of  spring  Mahica  came  to  the 
farm  along  with  the  master  and  mistress.  She  was 
one  of  the  senora's  servants.  In  point  of  fact,  she 
was  the  servant  of  no  one  on  earth.  With  her  beau- 
tiful head  held  in  unnatural  haughtiness,  she  seemed 
to  rebel  against  everything,  even  against  time  as  it 
went  by,  and  I  imagine  that  when  she  reached  the  hour 
of  prayer,  with  the  good  Lord  in  person,  it  wouldn't 
go  off  quite  smoothly! 

Mahica!  She  was  like  no  other  woman.  That  is 
very  certain,  seeing  that  she  was  the  most  precious  of 
all  that  live,  with  her  Indian  eyes  blacker  than  the 
deeps,  her  hair  blacker  than  night,  her  cheeks  and  her 
arms  of  gold!  I  cannot  recall  her  without  feeling  a 
contrast  of  pallor  overspread  my  face. 

Yes,  noble  caballeros,  love  is  tragic,  and  life  is  not 
comic  at  all.  And  yet,  if  I  pity  all  future  men,  it  is 
not  so  much  that  they  have  to  begin  over  again  our 
use  of  time,  as  that  they  are  certain  never  to  see  that 
woman  make  her  appearance  in  the  daylight  of  a 
winding  path,  or  in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway! 

But  how  capricious  she  revealed  herself,  how  dis- 
concerting, how  rudely  mocking  or  hastily  gloomy! 
One  used  to  see  her  come  out  of  the  little  "Grey 


no  WE  OTHERS 

House'*  where  she  rested,  leading  her  leopard  in  leash 
with  a  ribbon.  The  latter,  already  as  big  as  its  father 
and  mother,  was  as  harmless  as  the  lamb  called  Pascal. 
No  doubt  it  had  not  tasted  warm  blood.  That  is  the 
rule  for  those  beasts ;  they  only  become  savage  on  the 
day  when  that  savour  is  no  longer  a  secret  to  them. 

And  then?  Here  I  fall  back  completely  among  the 
old  traditional  tags.  I  fell  desperately  in  love  with 
this  Mahica,  so  sumptuous  to  see.  I  loved  her  all  the 
more  that  the  untamable  savage  bestowed  ferocious 
glances  on  me  at  the  outset.  This  fierce  rebellion,  in 
a  being  dowered  with  the  visage  of  the  rising  sun, 
maddened  me  to  the  highest  degree,  so  that  I  hardly 
noticed  the  grief  that  my  adopted  brother  Gus  felt, 
through  my  gradual  desertion  of  him.  Lord!  There 
are  cyclones  in  men's  destinies  that  turn  gentle  mo- 
notonies of  sentiment  upside  down;  and  I  even  bore 
my  friend  a  mild  grudge  for  not  realising  or  admit- 
ting that  a  passion  of  such  dimensions  as  mine  justi- 
fied my  negligence  in  his  regard! 

As  for  her,  several  signs  enabled  me  soon  to  guess 
that  her  bloodthirsty  and  raging  coldness,  if  I  may 
put  it  that  way,  was  only  apparent.  In  particular  I 
saw  several  times,  without  being  seen,  that  the  starry 
face  which  scowled  at  me  in  public  was  turned  benevo- 
lently towards  the  farm-building  where  I  lodged  alone 
with  Gus. 

One  day  I  ventured  to  speak  to  her  about  some- 
thing or  other;  another  day,  of  myself.  She  tried  at 
first  to  overawe  me  with  a  manner  that  in  turns  was 
queer,  haughty,  and  threatening.  Then  she  lowered 
her  head  and  listened  to  me.  At  the  end  of  the  fol- 


A  LIBATION  in 

lowing  fortnight  I  obtained  from  her  the  promise  of 
a  nocturnal  rendezvous. 

In  the  afternoon  before  that  great  evening  I  was 
with  Gus.  He  looked  so  sullen,  and  I  felt  so  happy, 
that  I  ended  by  telling  him  my  good  fortune. 

And  behold! — my  Gus  begins  to  sigh,  wanders  this 
way  and  that,  and  finally  leans  against  a  tree,  with 
dangling  arms.  There  was  reason — the  poor  boy 
loved  Mahica! 

By  dint  of  shaking  him,  I  made  him  confess  it.  And 
as  I  continued  to  shake  him,  he  added  that  Mahica 
loved  him,  too — or  at  least  that  she  had  sworn  it  to 
him. 

By  all  the  saints  in  hell  and  all  the  fiends  of  para- 
dise, I  was  completely  bowled  over!  I  clenched  my 
huge  fist — and  dealt  myself  a  formidable  thump  on 
the  chest. 

The  truth  put  my  eyes  out,  as  they  stupidly  say. 
Yes,  they  loved  each  other.  One  detail  after  another 
established  it.  And  I — I  had  only  been  the  horrible 
intruder  between  them!  One  thing  puzzled  me  much 
— this  positive,  indisputable  rendezvous  that  she  had 
granted  me.  But  I  had  only  the  more  shame  that  I 
had  intimidated  her,  and  I  said  to  Gus,  "I  forced  a 
rendezvous  from  her  for  to-night.  Go  in  my  place." 

He  looked  at  me,  and  then  said,  "I  will."  So  say- 
ing, we  parted. 

They  who  do  not  understand  my  action,  neither 
have  they  understood  how  deeply  Gus  was  my  friend 
and  I  his. 

I  began  to  wander,  alone,  in  the  wood,  and  night 


ii2  WE  OTHERS 

fell.  It  seemed  to  fall  like  a  storm,  that  was  all  the 
more  terrible  for  being  silent. 

Night;  I  was  still  wandering.  Suddenly  I  start — 
there — that  is  the  Grey  House!  My  steps  had  led  me 
to  the  place  where  she  was  waiting  for  me ;  and  by  a 
sort  of  miracle  or  dark  genius  of  my  being,  it  was 
the  actual  time  for  the  rendezvous. 

Ah,  no  punishment  was  to  be  spared  me !  Actually, 
a  man  was  gliding  towards  the  house.  The  grey  ghost 
showed  against  the  grey  of  the  wall,  and  it  resembled 
me  like  a  brother.  It  might  have  been  I,  but  it  was 
he.  He  went  in. 

And  while  I  moved  backwards  away,  with  a  grimace 
of  torture,  my  clenched  hands  on  my  forehead,  and 
keeping  silence  only  with  all  my  strength,  I  heard  a 
horrible  cry  come  from  the  house! 

After  that,  I  no  longer  know  clearly — the  leopard! 

When  we  had  all,  with  our  torches  and  our  re- 
volvers, pulled  Gus  away  from  the  beast,  he  was  only 
a  bloody  ruin,  his  chest  mangled,  his  neck  gnawed. 

In  good  sooth,  during  those  moments  I  was  like 
him — helpless  and  heart-torn.  Then,  little  by  little, 
I  understood;  the  ambush,  to  which  fate  had  led  him 
in  my  stead — and  the  wild  beast  let  loose  on  me. 

In  my  stupor,  an  obsessing  thought  fastened  upon 
me.  How  had  it  come  about  that  an  animal  so  inno- 
cent till  then  had  suddenly  slain?  I  discovered  that 
secret.  On  the  golden  arm  of  the  Indian  I  detected 
a  small  laceration,  hardly  healed.  And  I  had  a  night- 
mare vision  of  the  inhuman  libation  of  warm  blood 
that  she  had  cast  to  the  monster — before  she  waited 
for  me. 


A  DREAM  TOO  GOOD 

HP  OWARDS  the  end  of  their  stay  at  Park  House 
-*•  the  games  of  the  two  children  became  more  seri- 
ous. They  who  had  never  been  separated  were  some- 
times surprised  to  see  each  other,  and  stared. 

One  evening  his  eyes  sought  her  from  the  brink  of 
a  room  she  had  just  entered.  One  could  not  see  her 
clearly  in  the  shadow,  and  the  whole  room  seemed  to 
smile.  He  stood  rooted  there,  and  said  nothing — 
even  his  lips  dared  not  stir — but  he  felt  that  she  had 
become  the  only  being  in  the  world. 

He  lived  the  days  that  followed  in  the  wonderment 
of  that  evening.  He  shut  up  that  souvenir  in  his  large 
and  sensitive  heart.  He  did  not  speak  of  it — either 
to  others  or  to  her — hardly  to  himself,  and  quietly. 
He  became  radiantly  reserved,  busily  thinking  of  her, 
even  when  she  was  there. 

As  for  her,  she  seemed  to  be  waiting  for  him  to 
speak. 

The  separation,  which  was  to  last  a  year,  drew  nigh. 
Quickly  the  last  day  came  and  ended. 

The  last  evening,  as  on  the  others,  they  wandered 
together  in  the  grounds,  side  by  side.  Then,  as  al- 
ways, an  old  maternal  voice  called  to  them  from  the 
house,  and  they  went  in.  And  while  they  came  along 
the  main  drive,  he  reflected  that  he  would  not  see  her 
for  a  long  time.  He  looked  at  her  askance,  leaning  a 


H4  WE  OTHERS 

little  forward  as  she  walked,  her  face  and  hands  so 
dainty,  drawn  in  light  and  fragile  lines;  and  he  re- 
gretted that  he  had  not  spoken.  There  ought  to  have 
been  a  word,  something  of  decision  against  the  uncer- 
tainty of  fate.  But  it  was  too  late.  Already  they 
could  see  the  gleaming  front  of  the  house  through 
the  rounded  and  bluish  trees  that  looked  like  peacocks. 
Up  to  the  last,  they  were  separated  by  everybody. 

They  said  "Good-bye  till  the  summer!"  But  un- 
expected journeys  and  changed  circumstances  scat- 
tered the  important  people  on  whom  they  relied. 

One,  two,  three  years  went  by. 

He  knew  nothing  about  her.  Only  rarely,  in  con- 
versation at  long  intervals,  he  heard  her  name  go 
singing  by. 

But  he  lived  for  her.  After  those  hard-worked  days 
when  so  much  time  is  lost  in  things  essential,  closing 
his  eyes,  he  saw  her  again,  and  all  his  weariness  was 
compensated.  Truly,  it  was  not  a  cruel  separation  for 
him,  for  everywhere  and  always  he  made  a  paradise 
again  around  her. 

Less  than  ever  he  spoke  of  her.  He  could  not  be 
otherwise  than  alone  to  think  of  her;  his  love  was  too 
great  and  pure ;  he  had  deified  it  overmuch.  Invin- 
cibly he  enclosed  within  himself  those  confidences  with 
which  others  touch  one's  heart. 

He  wanted  to  write  to  her,  but  could  not.  Of  what 
use  are  words?  The  future  was  so  splendid  and  so 
sure !  When  he  was  counting  the  days,  at  those  weary 
moments  when  everything  seems  precarious  and 
threatening,  or  when  one  is  really  forced  to  be  anx- 
ious, the  sweetness  of  his  dream  removed  his  fears. 


A  DREAM  TOO  GOOD  115 

When  the  two  families  returned  to  Park  House,  he 
was  nineteen  and  she  seventeen. 

So  great  an  event  was  it  to  see  her  again  that  he 
delayed  his  arrival  for  several  days.  Yet  when  he  saw 
her,  he  had  no  surprise. 

She  was  the  same;  as  dainty  and  fair,  but  much 
more  developed.  She  had  increased  in  beauty  without 
changing,  being  herself  a  miracle.  And  in  the  first 
look  they  shared  he  recognised  her  still  better. 

The  idyll  made  ready,  exciting  and  grand.  Every- 
thing showed  and  proved  to  them — everything  around 
them  and  on  their  own  faces — that  they  had  chosen 
each  other.  But  although  she  sometimes  seemed  very 
thoughtful,  full  of  a  caressing  silence  and  an  offering 
of  attentiveness,  he  said  nothing  to  her.  He  would 
speak  to  her  some  day  and  he  would  listen  to  her,  but 
words  were  still  things  too  formal  for  the  infinity  of 
their  nearness  to  each  other. 

He  saw  little  of  her.  It  was  not^so  easy  to  be  to- 
gether as  formerly.  Little  obstacles  kept  them  apart, 
hour  after  hour.  Sometimes,  in  moments  of  reflection, 
he  would  come  to  perceiving  that  time  was  passing. 
Then  this  anxiety  struck  him  as  sacrilege;  that  was 
only  a  detail,  and  he  forgot  it. 

Once  when  she  was  surrounded  by  a  group  who 
discussed  the  stars,  she  said,  "I  often  open  my  win- 
dow at  night,  my  window  on  the  ground  floor,  on  the 
edge  of  the  road,  and  I  look  out,  though  I  don't  see 
anything.  Yes,  almost  every  night." 

And  he,  trembling  in  all  his  body  while  the  talk 
passed  on  elsewhere,  asked  himself  if  it  had  been  for 
him  that  she  said  it. 


n6  WE  OTHERS 

In  himself,  little  by  little,  he  dared  to  believe  it; 
he  dared  to  hear  the  great  appeal  she  had  uttered.  It 
was  for  him,  for  him,  that  she  opened  her  window  in 
the  dark.  Yes,  the  time  had  come.  Yes,  one  evening 
very  soon  he  would  go  down  there  to  the  side  of  the 
house.  He  pictured  to  himself  the  heavenly  meeting, 
and  the  words  that  would  begin  there,  never  again 
to  end.  For  nights  on  end  he  invented  them,  and 
learned  them  like  a  poem,  his  heart  throbbing,  drunk 
with  glory. 

He  postponed  the  pilgrimage.  Oh,  not  yet!  Speak 
to  her,  to  her  whom  he  only  looked  at  with  caution! 
When  on  the  point  of  coming  so  much  nearer  to  her, 
he  said  to  himself,  "Already!"  and  stopped,  dazzled 
by  even  the  beauty  of  the  action. 

And  then  an  unlooked-for  circumstance  curtailed 
the  stay  of  his  people.  One  afternoon  they^  said,  "We 
are  going  away  to-morrow !" — and  suddenly,  this  was 
the  last  evening. 

In  his  room  that  night  he  was  seized  with  terrible 
distress.  He  had  not  spoken;  he  had  done  nothing, 
and  now  it  was  too  late. 

Too  late,  he  opened  his  eyes.  Distinctly  he  saw  his 
fault,  his  disease,  his  weakness.  What  was  the  mat- 
ter with  him,  that  he  had  never  acted,  never  spoken, 
but  obstinately  vegetated  in  an  empty  dream,  in  an 
illusion  of  existence? 

At  one  moment  he  said  to  himself,  "To-night?"  He 
half  rose,  trembling.  This  very  evening?  Suppose 
she  was  still  there,  waiting?  No!  He  rejected  the 
senseless  notion  at  once,  and  fell  back  in  his  chair. 
It  was  too  late,  he  felt  certain.  No  doubt  she  had 


A  DREAM  TOO  GOOD  117 

waited  for  a  long  time,  but  she  must  have  given  it  up 
days  ago.  j£ 

He  groaned,  in  hatred  and  scorn  of  himself,  until 
weariness  took  pity  on  him. 

And  long,  long  afterwards,  in  the  first  glimmering 
of  dawn,  the  other  window,  on  the  edge  of  the  road, 
was  shut  with  a  sob. 

It  is  too  late!  That  was  the  too  brief  litany  in 
which  henceforth  he  cradled  the  mourning  of  his  heart, 
his  return  into  the  world. 

But  great  news  changed  the  appearance  of  things; 
she  was  coming  to  Paris. 

In  the  last  month  of  autumn  he  saw  her,  visiting 
friends.  She  was  haughty,  reserved — very  different. 
So  he  looked  away  from  her;  she  had  regained  her- 
self, all  was  over,  and  although  she  was  there,  she 
was  lost  for  ever. 

And  in  spite  of  all,  he  felt  that  the  immense  inno- 
cence of  his  heart  had  been  wounded.  A  fierce  pride 
sealed  his  lips.  He  was  cold,  distant,  quivering,  and 
heart-rent.  He  left,  and  went  up  his  street  as  up 
Gethsemane. 

Weeks  went  by.  One  day  he  heard  by  chance  that 
some  one  had  proposed  to  her  and  been  rejected.  He 
lifted  his  head  again,  rich  in  a  poverty-stricken  hope. 

This  time,  as  soon  as  he  was  alone  with  himself,  he 
came  to  strong  decisions,  without  indulgence.  He 
would  have  an  explanation  with  her;  he  would  act. 
It  appeared  so  easy  to  him  that  his  former  hesitation 
amazed  him.  He  tried  to  see  the  meaning  of  it,  and 
lost  himself,  head  in  hands. 


ii8  WE  OTHERS 

To  act !  To  settle  his  position  definitely  at  once.  It 
was  only  a  matter  of  days.  He  busied  himself  with 
it  fiercely,  and  resumed  the  measures  he  had  left  in 
abeyance.  He  made  an  appointment.  He  said  to 
himself,  and  repeated  it  aloud,  "Now  is  the  time.  I 
must  speak.  Yes,  at  once,  to-morrow!" 

But  the  next  day  he  was  informed  that  she  had  just 
got  engaged. 

He  had  such  a  habit  of  silence  and  self -concealment 
that  no  one  saw  how  frightfully  the  revelation  wounded 
him.  As  soon  as  the  door  of  his  room  was  closed 
upon  him  he  cried  in  the  low  voice  of  despair,  "Her !" 
And  standing  but  swaying,  he  saw  himself  in  the  mir- 
ror make  a  sign  of  refusal!  He  did  not  consent.  He 
rejected  the  disaster  with  all  the  strength  of  his  life. 
Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  hurled  himself  into  a  per- 
emptory decision — to  see  her!  With  feverish  and 
shaking  hand,  he  seized  his  hat  and  cloak.  He  went 
out,  leaving  the  door  open,  the  room  yawning. 

He  took  the  tram-cars,  got  down  at  some  cross- 
ways  of  black  night,  and  ran. 

It  was  she  herself  who  opened  the  gate  to  him.  He 
saw  her  in  the  dark  because  of  her  voice. 

"What  do  you  want?"  she  said. 

"To  see  you — to  speak  to  you/'  he  began  at  last. 
"I— I " 

"It  is  too  late  to  speak  to  me."  In  a  gesture  of 
farewell  she  raised  a  hand,  where  for  the  first  time 
there  shone  a  ring.  He  only  saw  the  hand  coming 
out  of  the  dark,  and  then  he  only  saw  the  ring,  that 
real  and  final  thing. 


A  DREAM  TOO  GOOD  119 

Against  that,  he  found  nothing  to  say.  He  recoiled 
a  few  steps  and  went  away,  chanting  a  subdued  but 
groaning  recitative — "It  is  too  late — I  knew  it — I  al- 
ways said  so!" 


A  TRUE  JUDGE 

TT  was  in  the  year  of  grace  1827,  on  the  first  of 
•••  December.  As  she  had  intimated,  Priscilla  Haw- 
kins returned  to  the  conjugal  hearth  in  the  evening. 
In  the  midst  of  the  noise  of  wheels  which  disappeared 
along  the  paved  street,  she  knocked.  The  servant 
opened  to  her  as  before,  and  without  speaking.  She 
ascended  the  steps  in  the  porch,  gently  pushed  open 
the  drawing-room  door,  and — strange  as  it  may  ap- 
pear— she  was  there. 

The  judge  had  raised  his  proud  white  head.  Since 
the  message  she  had  sent  him,  he  had  waited  for  her 
so  passionately  that  he  had  to  make  a  great  effort  to 
hide  his  surprise  on  seeing  her  at  last. 

"It's  you?" 

It  was  a  stammering  whisper,  either  from  emotion 
or  so  that  he  would  not  frighten  away  the  young 
woman  who  stood,  still  hesitant,  on  the  threshold. 
With  a  tranquil  air  he  rose  and  went  towards  her. 
They  shook  hands  and  welcomed  each  other,  using 
customary  phrases,  but  gravely  and  timidly,  in  spite 
of  all. 

She  looked  round  her.  Nothing  had  changed  since 
she  went  away,  six  months  before.  The  old  gentle- 
man had  taken  all  measures  to  ensure  that  the  erring 
wife's  return  should  pass  off  as  a  quite  simple  happen- 
ing, and  even  customary — a  peaceful  incident  of  an 

1 20 


A  TRUE  JUDGE  121 

evening — and  that  there  should  be  no  sign  of  joy- 
making  or  word  of  forgiveness,  that  there  should  be 
nothing  but  a  resumption  of  the  times  that  had  been 
interrupted. 

She  sat  down  in  the  orange-coloured  armchair.  She 
was  wearing  a  hat  with  strings  of  periwinkle  blue,  a 
dress  with  multiplied  flounces  of  bright  green,  the 
colour  of  sunny  foliage,  very  like  the  one  she  wore 
on  the  day  she  went  away.  Her  blue  eyes  made  her 
ever-rosy  face  seem  transparent,  and  the  spiral  curls 
of  her-  hair  were  making  the  little  movements  which 
the  fashion  of  that  time  required. 

She  smiled  faintly.  And  he  smiled  too,  so  as  to 
be  like  her.  Both  tried  hard  to  look  as  if  they  were 
not  thinking  of  the  only  thing  there  was.  The  judge 
was  fidgety,  and  rubbed  his  hands  together  without 
cause.  He  began  a  sentence,  stopped,  hesitated,  and 
then,  having  coughed,  made  up  his  mind: 

"Would  you  like  to  have  dinner,  my  dear?" 

"Certainly,"  she  said.  She  took  off  her  hat,  and 
as  she  handed  it  to  the  old  servant  she  looked  at  her, 
and  said  in  a  kind  sad  way,  "Good  evening,  Betty." 

The  old  woman  made  no  sign,  as  if  she  had  not 
heard ;  she  was  carrying  out  too  well  her  master's  in- 
structions. 

They  dined.  The  old  gentleman  told  some  fox- 
hunting tales.  She  listened,  and  smiled  politely,  as 
one  does  when  making  calls.  Sometimes,  with  an  ef- 
fort, she  said,  "Ah,  ah!" 

After  dinner  they  sat  down  opposite  each  other. 
They  talked  for  a  few  hours  more,  then  words  became 
scarcer.  Silence  followed,  nor  could  they  repel  it. 


122  WE  OTHERS 

They  both  dared  at  last  to  understand  that  their 
life  would  never  be  what  it  had  been;  that  to  meet 
again  was  not  enough  to  bring  them  together,  that  the 
past  could  not  be  healed.  Possessed  more  and  more 
by  this  idea,  soon  they  could  no  longer  dissemble.  He 
shut  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  think.  She  wiped  away 
a  tear. 

When  their  silence  had  still  more  increased  and 
frozen,  he  raised  his  fine  angular  face  from  the  black 
silk  that  draped  his  neck,  and  said,  "We  must  regret 
nothing." 

She  replied  with  a  sob,  and  forthwith  fell  into  a 
terrible  paroxysm  of  tears,  her  hands  pressed  upon 
her  eyes. 

The  judge's  face  reddened  a  little,  and  his  eyelids 
winked.  When  she  was  a  little  more  calm  and  sub- 
dued, he  urged  her  paternally  to  go  and  lie  down. 
She  got  up  like  a  little  girl.  Just  as  she  was  going  to 
say  "good-night,"  she  hesitated,  and  was  silent.  Quite 
gently,  she  was  no  longer  there. 

As  long  as  she  moved  about  the  room  where  she 
had  gone  to  vanish,,  as  long  as  there  filtered  through 
the  ceiling  the  indistinct  murmur,  mingled  and  inno- 
cent, of  her  movements,  the  good  man  listened. 

Then,  when  the  world  was  silent  again,  he  took  his 
chin  in  hand,  as  he  did  in  the  courts. 

Facing  himself,  he  became  the  judge  who  seeks  to 
know  what  he  must  believe  and  what  he  should  do. 
He  questioned  himself,  recalled  memories  and  por- 
traits; he  listened  to  voices. 

What  was  Priscilla?  The  lovely  apparition  which 
the  name  evoked  openly  and  at  once  declared — she  was 


A  TRUE  JUDGE  123 

sweetness,  weakness.  And  what  else?  Nothing  else; 
that  only.  Whatever  her  lot  might  be,  she  did  not 
deserve  to  be  harmed. 

She  had  married  him  innocently,  in  all  sweetness 
and  weakness.  He  had  known  her  as  a  child.  When 
she  was  taller,  when  she  had  reached  the  age  that 
angels  seem  to  be,  he  had  asked  for  her  in  wedlock, 
and  had  got  her.  She  had  wished  nothing  and  de- 
cided nothing.  He  had  selected  her,  he  had,  as  he 
would  a  rose.  Her  consent  was  only  the  grace  that 
comprised  her,  her  smile  was  only  the  sweet  scent  of 
her.  For  eight  years,  beside  this  man  with  white  hair, 
she  had  continued  to  be  beautiful  and  to  adorn  all 
about  her.  After  that,  she  began  to  look  sad,  and  she 
had  cried,  loyally.  He  could  not  see  that  sadness  at 
first ;  then  he  could  not  understand  it ;  then  he  did  not 
wish  it.  He  did  not  try  to  get  to  know  the  other's 
name.  And  she  had  gone  away,  in  gala  array  in  spite 
of  her  tears,  at  the  beginning  of  the  spring.  She  re- 
turned with  the  winter,  in  despair,  in  spite  of  the  smile 
in  which  she  tried  to  disguise  herself. 

In  all  this,  the  judge  tried  to  find  something  that 
was  a  fault ;  and  he  did  not  find  it.  He  turned  it  over 
again — a  long,  long  time — and  concluded  at  last  that 
it  was  he  who  must  beg  Priscilla's  pardon. 

In  these  tremors  the  night  wore  away.  A  little 
grey  light  was  creeping  through  the  panes  and  becom- 
ing slowly  clearer,  when  the  judge  went  stooping  to 
liis  room.  He  saw — and  passed  by — that  doorway 
to  life  which  divided  their  rooms.  "Should  he  see  her 
asleep?  No" — not  in  fear  of  giving  way,  but  in  ter- 
ror of  awakening  her. 


124  WE  OTHERS 

Having  finished  his  toilet,  he  set  off  to  his  work. 
At  once  he  was  recaptured  by  his  habits,  absorbed  by 
the  accustomed  scenes.  The  square  had  a  carpet  of 
snow  and  was  draped  with  fog.  He  crossed  it  en- 
folded in  the  vast  amplitude  of  a  cloak  that  had  capes 
in  tiers. 

He  met  gentlemen  who  trod  the  snow  with  long 
strides  in  all  directions,  whose  faces  smarted  and  their 
eyes  watered  in  the  cold  wind;  and  they  also  were 
sunk  in  huge  overcoats — of  a  bluish  colour,  or  like 
cafe-au-lait,  or  Spanish  tobacco.  Snow  was  every- 
where spreading  the  purity  of  white  paper,  with  draw- 
ings on  it,  here  and  there.  It  was  making  the  scarlet 
sign  of  the  hotel  look  vivid  as  underdone  sirloin,  and 
freshly  restoring  the  bootmaker's  green  shop  front. 
Then  a  slight  rain  began  to  pencil  the  faded  house- 
fronts  with  thin  and  regular  lines.  A  cab,  sharp  and 
black  as  a  pen  drawing,  was  climbing  Bessemer  Lane, 
where  the  pointed  stones  were  set  in  white  instead  of 
in  black. 

The  judge  plunged  into  a  porch,  passed  along  a  cor- 
ridor, where  attendants  made  themselves  small  and 
murmured,  "My  Lord/*  and  entered  a  huge  hall,  se- 
verely paved  with  big  black  and  white  slabs. 

He  sat  down  at  a  table  where  heaps  of  papers  were 
arranged  and  began  to  examine  the  cases  in  which 
judgment  was  to  be  delivered  in  that  day's  sitting. 

He  had  completely  shaken  off  his  personal  anxieties. 
As  duty  required,  he  was  now  only  a  judge,  bent  upon 
his  office.  He  had  regained  his  energetic  precision  of 
mind,  his  searching  glance,  and — behind  the  railings 
of  his  wrinkles — his  inexorable  air. 


A  TRUE  JUDGE  125 

The  first  case  was  that  of  Fauke  v.  Fauke,  a  story 
of  adultery;  a  light-headed  woman,  a  good  man  for- 
saken. His  eyebrows  contracted.  He  reread  the 
circumstances.  Whatever  they  were,  the  culprit  had 
transgressed  of  her  own  free  will.  Then  there  was 
no  excuse.  The  conclusion  he  had  arrived  at  on  the 
first  hearing  was  confirmed,  and  he  decided  that  this 
woman  must  be  severely  punished. 


THE  THREE  MAD-WOMEN 

three  patrons,  having  finished  their  accus- 
tomed  inspection,  were  conducted  with  much 
bowing  by  the  directors  and  managers  of  the  asylum 
as  far  as  the  door  which  overlooks  the  fields. 

The  marchioness  begged  them  to  return  into  the 
institution  where  the  miserable  recluses  required  their 
attention,  and  the  three  old  ladies,  left  alone,  sat  down 
on  the  stone  seat  to  await  their  motor-car. 

Evening  was  falling,  and  on  the  white  walls  of  the 
garden  of  the  mad  and  on  the  last  of  the  urban  en- 
closures it  spread  slight  mourning.  In  deep  reflection 
on  the  dismal  dormitories  and  the  strangely  animated 
cells  the  three  rich  ladies  contemplated  the  evening, 
which  comes  miraculously,  for  you  do  not  see  it  come. 

They  sighed  together,  nor  was  there  anything  sur- 
prising in  it,  seeing  that  they  were  of  the  same  age, 
devoted  themselves  to  the  same  work,  resembled  each 
other,  and  had  their  minds  full  just  then  of  the  same 
pictures — all  that  tragic  procession  of  accursed,  of 
shriekers,  of  martyrs,  whose  lot  was  allayed  between 
the  committee's  costly  walls. 

Escaped  therefrom,  the  three  patronesses  sat  in 
wonder,  with  renewed  visions  of  the  poor  restless 
Marionette  to  whom  God  had  been  cruel  in  order  to 
punish  her  sons;  of  her  next  whose  backward  brain 
left  her  a  useless  object  in  the  cavern  of  a  room ;  and 

126 


THE  THREE  MAD-WOMEN  127 

of  the  melancholy  mad,  gnawed  by  her  heart  as  by  a 
cancer.  And  if  our  visitors  were  too  used  to  the 
sights  to  be  upset  by  them,  none  the  less  they  remained 
on  the  seat  very  soberly,  like  three  little  girls. 

"The  car  isn't  coming.  Constant  cannot  have  un- 
derstood. He  never  understands,"  declared  the 
leader. 

As  she  uttered  these  words,  a  couple  came  into  sight 
from  the  other  end  of  the  Rue  des  Ramparts,  which 
ended  at  their  feet.  It  was  the  tax-collector  and  his 
wife.  They  did  not  see  the  three  ladies,  and  drew 
closer  to  each  other,  tenderly,  in  the  greyness  of  even- 
ing. They  came  on  into  the  shadow  of  a  tall  house 
that  towered  above  the  street-wall,  and  drawing  still 
nearer,  they  kissed,  under  the  wing  of  the  house. 

The  president  said  "Ah !"  as  one  sighs,  and  the  two 
other  ladies  heard  her  sighing.  Their  eyes  followed 
the  lovers,  and  there  was  something  a  little  curious  in 
the  way  they  admired  them,  charitably  disposed  as 
they  were.  When  the  young  couple  had  passed  along 
the  road — so  near,  and  yet  wandering  in  another 
world — one  of  the  ladies  murmured,  in  a  carefully  low 
voice,  "God  bless  them!" 

The  two  others  at  once  said,  "Yes,"  as  if  it  had  been 
a  question. 

Thanks  to  the  darkness,  which  continued  infinitely 
to  fall  from  heaven  or  rise  from  earth,  this  corner  of 
the  country  grew  smaller,  smaller,  till  it  was  like  a 
confessional  box,  where  one  thinks  aloud. 

The  marchioness's  lips  framed  some  explanation  of 
the  chauffeur's  remissness,  some  misunderstanding, 
but  it  was  not  the  moment  for  that  sort  of  reflection. 


128  WE  OTHERS 

No  doubt  it  was  the  vision  of  the  mad-women,  of  the 
two  divinely  blind  beings,  of  the  evening  that  draws 
in  all  trifles,  that  had  altered  the  face  of  things,  for 
instead  of  speaking  of  her  chauffeur,  she  confessed: 
"I  have  been  young."  She  added,  "I  remember  it 
still." 

She  bowed  her  shoulders,  and  they  trembled  as 
when  touched  in  benediction.  One  noticed  her  white 
hair,  her  cheeks,  white  also  and  soft,  her  cheeks  of 
cotton-wool.  One  even  noticed  how  pink  her  eyelids 
were,  worn  out  by  the  days  that  had  run  away,  drop 
by  drop.  It  was  a  moment  when  secrets  can  no  longer 
defend  themselves,  when  silence  can  no  longer  conceal 
all  things,  when  one's  heart  is  opened. 

She  who  had  just  said  suddenly,  "I  have  been 
young,"  now  stammered : 

"I  have  been  mad,  I  have  been  mad!  I  have  had 
in  my  life  an  unspeakable  crisis,  which  passed  like  a 
great  dream.  Yes,  I,  such  as  I  was,  such  as  I  am,  mad 
like  those  we  saw  just  now.  True,  it  is  a  long  time 
since. 

"We  had  been  settled  some  little  time.  Jacques  had 
just  had  his  salary  raised,  and  our  Marthe  was  two 
years  old.  Well,  I  wanted  to  finish  with  all,  and  go 
after  another  man.  One  night  I  was  stealing  softly 
through  the  house,  to  go  away  for  ever.  The  little 
one  was  crying  in  her  cot  while  I  was  gliding  towards 
the  door. 

"Yes,  I  know ;  I  did  not  go.  But  that  was  a  chance 
— because  I  could  not  open  the  wardrobe  where  all  my 
things  were.  That  was  the  only  reason,  that  trifle, 
why  I  did  not  cross  the  threshold,  why  I  continued  to 


THE  THREE  MAD-WOMEN  129 

stay  at  home.  But  for  that  silly  detail,  all  would  have 
been  upset.  When  I  think  of  that  error,  pushed  so 
far,  of  that  crime  begun,  of  that  abyss  into  which  I 
had  actually  thrown  myself,  I  am  stupefied  and  do  not 
understand.  All  seems  insane  to  me,  in  that  night- 
mare which  I  had  thought  of  for  months,  wished  for 
for  weeks,  and  walked  in  for  a  night.  I  know  no 
more  about  it,  only  that  it  was.  I  cannot  even  regret 
it,  so  far  removed  I  am  from  the  woman  who  was 
tempted  to  the  very  brink.  Long,  long  ago  I  became 
myself  again,  beside  my  poor  husband  who  is  so 
ill;  and  I  have  only  one  more  hope  on  earth — to  die 
before  him." 

The  second  lady  very  quickly  took  up  the  tale,  in 
the  midst  of  the  obscurity  which  more  and  more  com- 
pletely united  their  hearts,  their  poor  infectious 
hearts : 

"I,  too,  I  have  been  mad.  Ah,  when  that  young 
man,  when  that  Olivier  who  used  to  smile  at  me  so 
handsomely  and  proudly,  began  to  seek  my  daughter's 
company!  She  was  seventeen  and  he  twenty-five;  it 
was  natural.  But  I,  I  would  not  have  it,  and  I  fought 
against  it,  and  I  did  all  I  could  that  I  might  not  be 
tortured.  What  did  I  not  ask  and  contrive  in  my 
prayers?  What  did  I  not  dream  of  that  was  unjust 
and  merciless?  He,  he  never  knew  anything  of  it. 
He  did  not  know  how  madly  happy  and  unhappy  he 
had  made  me,  when  he  came  so  near  to  me  only  to 
turn  away  again.  He  thought  he  had  to  do  with  a 
normal  woman,  even  at  the  moments  when  I  most 
loved  him.  Ah,  I  have  been  mad — I  was  free,  and 
yet  imprisoned!  They  became  more  and  more  inti- 


i3o  WE  OTHERS 

mate.  They  had  a  daughter;  and  now  my  prayer, 
which  will  perhaps  be  granted,  is  only — O  my  God ! — 
to  have  a  great-grandchild!" 

"And  I  too,"  the  third  patroness  went  on  in  a  se- 
date voice,  "I  have  been  something  like  them,  like 
you.  It  was  also  because  of  a  man  who  came  into 
my  life,  a  life  already  settled  down,  which  really 
means  already  ended.  One  day  he  spoke  to  me  bru- 
tally, before  everybody.  He  had  no  right  to  do  it — 
you  understand  me — but  what  despairing  gratitude  I 
dedicated  to  him,  for  having  just  a  moment  thought 
of  me!  Later  he  grew  a  little  sociable.  It  was  ter- 
rible. I  heard  abominable  things  about  him  that  they 
proved  to  me,  and  yet  I  could  not  believe  them  until 
afterwards.  But  everything  made  me  like  him  best. 
Nothing  happened  between  us.  But  I  have  been  mad ; 
I  know  it  well,  seeing  I  am  no  longer  so,  and  some- 
times I  seem  to  remember  yet  how  I  then  hated  every- 
body, and  all  my  family.  I  hated  them  so  much  that 
I  was  happier  by  hating  than  by  loving.  How  could 
I  have  changed  so  much — how?  I  do  not  try  to  ex- 
plain it  to  myself.  There  is  no  more  accounting  for 
heart-disease  than  for  the  other  sorts." 

They  were  silent. 

"Youth  is  a  delirium  that  passes,"  the  oldest  of 
the  three  friends  concluded  gently.  "These  are  the 
disordered  dreams  that  one  has,  some  night  or  other. 
Next  morning,  in  the  daylight,  one  is  older,  and  tran- 
quil. You  see  it  is  not  even  difficult  to  talk  about  it ; 
it  is  so  completely  done  with." 

She  uttered  these  extraordinary  words  in  an  en- 
tirely peaceful  tone.  She  brushed  some  dust  from 


THE  THREE  MAD-WOMEN  131 

her  gown  of  black  satin,  and  stood  up.  Her  compan- 
ions got  up  too,  and  made  their  way  towards  the 
principal  gate,  where  the  chauffeur,  insufficiently  in- 
structed, was  doubtless  waiting.  They  became  sil- 
houettes, sumptuous  and  slender,  which  gave  them  an 
air  of  imitating  young  women.  They  followed  the 
madhouse  wall  along,  feeling  themselves  healed  and 
serene,  and  all  three  wearing  the  same  smile  of  old 
age  and  convalescence. 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT 

HE  had  a  name,  said  Jimmy,  that  might  have 
broken  your  jaw.  I've  forgotten  what  it  was 
exactly,  although  it  belonged  to  my  closest  compan- 
ion. The  fact  is  that  this  was  at  a  far-off  and  ex- 
citing period — quite  damnably  so — of  my  existence, 
and  in  that  South  Africa  where  such  adventures  be- 
fell me  that  I  regard  myself  as  a  romancer  when  I 
recall  them! 

This  damned  pal,  then,  this  pirate,  this  brigand, 
this — but  we  won't  unload  the  story  too  quickly — this 
bankrupt  skunk,  then,  started  housekeeping  with  me 
in  a  bush  cabin  somewhere  near  Griqualand,  at  about 
the  time  of  the  Rush. 

Those  of  you,  gentlemen  readers,  who  did  not  see 
the  commotion  that  then  sent  all  the  diamond-wanters 
of  the  world  crowding  to  the  Cape,  have  seen  hardly 
anything,  and  even  if  a  man  has  been  a  hangman  or 
convict-warder,  he  only  has  a  very  besugared  idea 
of  what  the  human  animal  may  become. 

For  myself,  I  was  something  of  a  blemish  among 
the  crowd  of  my  fellow  animals.  I  have  always  been, 
I  admit,  pretty  well  refined,  not  only  in  disposition 
but  in  looks.  Over  yonder  my  correct  English  seemed 
like  a  foreign  language,  and  of  course  my  youthful 
face  of  that  time  had  no  sort  of  affinity  with  that 
snout. 

132 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  133 

My  companion  was — let  us  speak  plainly — a  brute. 
A  fierce,  uncivilised  giant  he  stood,  with  a  head  like 
a  rough  chopping-block  where  thick  fair  hair  grew  like 
a  thatch,  his  huge  features  shining  with  sweat,  his 
nose  red-painted  with  whiskey,  his  shoulders  like  a 
travelling  trunk. 

This  rascal,  whose  name,  after  torturing  my  gullet, 
has  finally  escaped  me,  was  not  a  bad  sort  at  bottom, 
but  stupid — my  word!  and  foul-mouthed — oh,  wasn't 
he !  Even  when  you  caressed  him,  you  had  to  be  very- 
careful  you  stroked  him  the  right  way. 

But  whatever  the  living  antithesis  we  made,  we  got 
on  pretty  well  together,  and  we  worked  together — I 
with  my  head,  he  with  his  arms;  I  as  a  man,  he  as  a 
bear. 

After  months  in  which  we  saw  no  more  precious 
stones  than  if  we  had  prospected  between  the  stones 
of  Regent  Street  (though  that's  not  always  barren 
work,  if  one  can  believe  the  gossip  of  your  damned 
modern  newspapers),  I  decided  to  go,  alone,  a  point 
farther  west,  to  get  a  smell  of  the  news. 

That  was  how  I  came  to  reach  the  Boer  village 
where  the  inn  was  kept  by  one  Pickles. 

Now  this  Pickles,  a  beastly  personage  whom  I  sus- 
pected of  having  formerly  hunted  passers-by  in  the 
bush,  and  his  wife,  a  hideous  slattern  with  a  black 
cape  and  a  yellow  nose — these  two  monsters,  I  say, 
had  a  daughter,  a  sort  of  dazzling  vision,  slight  as 
gossamer,  airy  as  a  song,  and  who  was  called  Re- 
becca to  boot — the  most  beautiful  of  names. 

God  damn  me  once  more  if  I've  ever  seen,  either 
in  gardens  or  museums,  anything  to  compare  with  that 


134  WE  OTHERS 

Rebecca,  so  fair  and  so  pink  you  would  have  sworn 
that  Noonday  had  dusted  her  hair  with  gold  and  pol- 
ished her  cheeks  with  rosy  powder !  As  for  her  eyes, 
as  for  her  smile,  there's  no  way  of  telling  you  their 
brilliance  with  my  voice,  nor  with  ink,  either. 

And  she  was  also  the  most  tender  of  sensitive 
plants.  Trembling,  starting,  of  angelic  fragility,  she 
blushed  and  stammered  for  nothing  at  all.  A  word 
uttered  louder  than  another  brought  a  twitch  of  un- 
easiness to  her  face.  It  seemed  as  if  words  touched 
her  like  breath,  and  dimmed  her  hue  a  little. 

Between  this  tender  and  touching  gentleness  and 
my  own  temperament  there  was  an  affinity  that  drew 
us  near  together.  And  one  fine  evening  she  replied 
with  the  most  adorable  of  silences  to  my  first  avowal, 
offered  in  a  low  voice,  a  very  low  voice,  and  with  my 
face  turned  away,  for  fear  of  making  her  fly  away. 
Yes,  she  was  silent  for  a  very  long  time  on  that  great 
occasion.  It  was  a  way  of  saying  "yes"  with  her 
heart. 

When  my  working  partner  came  and  joined  me,  my 
affair  with  Rebecca  had  progressed  a  long  way. 

Without  having  exactly  said  it  to  each  other,  we 
felt  that  it  was  going  to  be  a  question  of  proposal, 
and  betrothal,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing. 

Now,  my  companion,  as  soon  as  he  arrived,  was 
fascinated  by  the  vision  of  Rebecca.  I  could  not 
help  laughing  when  I  saw,  blissfully  planted  before 
the  little  trembling  flower,  that  great  rough-hewn 
block,  greyish  and  huge,  like  the  latter  half  of  an  ele- 
phant. 

And  the  idea  of  a  wicked  joke  budded  in  my  un- 


THE  SENSITIVE  PLANT  135 

merciful  mind — the  mind  of  a  victorious  lover.  I 
concealed  from  the  nameless  being — ah,  the  absence 
of  that  name  annoys  and  pursues  me  as  its  presence 
would! — my  idyll  with  Rebecca;  and  after  hoodwink- 
ing him  by  telling  him  I  had  found  out  that  he  was 
as  love-lorn  as  the  devil,  I  advised  him  to  reveal  his 
feelings  to  her. 

Very  confidingly,  I  urged  him  to  take  the  fortiter 
in  re  course.  Yes,  I  had  the  ferocious  cheek  to  tell 
him  a  long  rigmarole  by  way  of  showing  that  the  only 
qualities  the  young  girl  esteemed  in  men  were  energy, 
rudeness,  and  even  brutality !  In  short,  I  piled  up  the 
rudest  of  jests,  without  any  notion — God  might  bear 
me  witness,  if  He  would  deign  to! — that  it  might 
have  serious  results. 

The  next  evening  I  met  my  Rebecca,  toddling 
alongside  a  wall,  with  her  head  down.  I  stopped  her 
and  we  chatted.  I  uttered  the  name  of  my  friend, 
that  frightful  name  forgotten  to-day,  enshrouded, 
buried. 

She  jumped  as  if  I  had  struck  her. 

Good,  I  said  to  myself;  no  doubt  about  it;  my 
numskull  has  seen  her  and  has  courted  her  in  his 
own  way. 

At  that  moment  I  was  angry  with  myself  for  work- 
ing the  sorry  joke.  Seized  with  remorse,  I  forced  my- 
self to  make  excuses  for  the  poor  bungler. 

But  the  young  girl  raised  her  clear  eyes  to  mine 
and  interrupted  me.  "I  am  engaged  to  him,"  she 
said. 

"To  whom?"  I  yelled. 

''Why,"  said  Rebecca,  "to "  and  the  crystalline 


136  WE  OTHERS 

voice  repeated  that  name  so  hard  to  swallow,  that 
accursed  name,  that  name  repulsive  as  physic. 

Beside  myself,  I  gesticulated:  "You!  He!  But, 
my  dear,  he's  a  brute!  He's " 

"That's  just  why  I  liked  him,"  she  said  sweetly; 
"he  spoke  to  me  with  authority.  Ah,  how  loud  he 
shouted !  If  you  knew  all  that  he  dared  to  say  to  me, 
to  me!  It's  inconceivable!" 

She  had  lowered  her  head,  and  her  nose  had  been 
turned  by  bashfulness  into  a  rose;  and  she  piped — 
"It's  been  a  revelation." 

There!  I  sat  down  on  a  boulder,  all  of  a  heap. 
What  else  could  I  do? 

Yes,  sirs,  yes.  My  sensitive  plant  had  been  en- 
tirely captivated  by  the  huge  blockhead.  She  had  be- 
gun, in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,  and  after  all  the  in- 
struction of  her  youth,  to  understand  and  to  like 
rudeness  and  ignominy.  Why?  For  no  reason  at  all 
— because  she  had  begun  to  like  them,  and  that's  all. 

Afterwards?  Well,  it  didn't  kill  me,  since  here  I 
am.  Like  a  lunatic  I  went  away  from  that  country  of 
lunatics,  and  naturally  I've  forgotten. 

But  I  must  say  one  thing:  In  the  matter  of  senti- 
mentality, one  must  not  rely  on  anything — nor  on 
what's  left.  When  a  man  presumes  to  talk  about  love, 
and  to  affirm  this  or  that,  he  risks  saying  as  many 
foolish  things  as  a  doctor  does  as  soon  as  he  ven- 
tures to  relate  the  secrets  of  disease,  or  as  an  astrono- 
mer when  he  takes  it  into  his  head  to  explain  the 
real  reasons  of  the  comedies  of  the  sun  and  the  moon. 


THE  APPARITION 

TALKING  about  this,  said  Etienne,  do  you  know 
that  I'm  getting  a  divorce  ?  No  ?  Well,  it  is  so. 
The  proceedings  are  begun.  Jeannine  and  I,  we're 
going  to  wait  in  ante-rooms,  seated  on  forms;  then 
we  shall  go  in  and  expose  our  private  affairs  to  peo- 
ple who  will  not  know  us  any  better  than  doctors  do. 
And  as  soon  as  those  folks  have  made  their  way  into 
our  life,  we — we  shall  go  out  of  it.  I  do  not  know 
what  will  become  of  her,  and  I  know  still  less  what 
awaits  me  in  those  days,  those  evenings,  when  she 
no  longer  does  it. 

Sir,  if  I  am  speaking  of  the  affair  to  you  with  an 
air  of  indifference,  it  is  not  only  a  way  of  showing 
that  I  am  upset.  It  is  also  because  I  am  occupied 
with  the  nasty  future  left  to  me,  when  I  am  a  widower, 
or  rather,  almost  a  widower — no,  more  than  a  wid- 
ower. 

I  am  not  accusing  any  one.  It  is  nothing  surprising 
that  this  should  happen  to  us  as  well,  of  course.  Life 
always  finds  a  way  of  making  everybody's  affairs  end 
up  badly,  because  it's  the  rule,  and  those  that  finish 
well  must  be  begun  again. 

How  did  it  come  about?  It  was  settled  suddenly 
one  evening,  one  great  evening.  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  how  it  happened,  although  it's  not  a  very  good 

i37 


138  WE'  OTHERS 

story.  It  has  no  beginning  and  no  end,  and  isn't  in 
the  least  amusing. 

You  know  Jeannine.  Even  when  quite  young  she 
was  surprising,  because  too  pretty,  with  her  eyes  so 
deeply — so  deeply  blue,  and  that  sunny  hair  which 
would  not  let  night  quench  it.  For  years  she  never 
ceased  to  improve — it  had  to  be  seen  to  be  believed. 
She — I — in  short,  we  got  married,  and  we  have  lived 
together  a  good  part  of  our  lives — that  good  part 
which  will  be  dead  in  a  few  days. 

During  those  fifteen  years  nothing  worth  mention 
happened  in  her  life,  in  mine,  in  ours;  nothing  hap- 
pened, not  only  nothing  that  called  for  reproof,  but 
nothing  special. 

She  set  things  in  order,  came  and  went.  I — I 
worked.  I  put  myself  to  much  trouble  in  trying  to 
spare  her  cares  and  worry.  The  damned  bankruptcy 
of  my  first  employer  has  been  the  only  secret  I  have 
kept  from  her.  We  lived  much  retired.  In  the  first 
days  we  did  not  want  to  see  any  one — we  too  much 
preferred  each  other  to  other  people;  and  then  after- 
wards we  hardly  thought  of  attracting  friends.  In 
short,  we  were  happy,  weren't  we?  All  that  has  gone 
by  like  a  dream,  and  now  I  can  no  longer  recall  those 
days  very  well,  now  that  I've  awakened  from  them. 

Then  behold  that  happiness  suddenly  darkened, 
about  two  years  ago.  Jeannine  changed,  and  the  first 
symptoms  of  her  malady  were  unaccountably  queer. 
She  became  absent-minded,  nervous,  dejected.  She 
began  to  speak  of  the  things  which  had  always  been 
so  in  a  tone  of  complaint;  for  example,  that  we  did 


THE  APPARITION  139 

nothing  in  the  evenings,  either  of  us,  but  just  faced 
each  other. 

We  did  nothing,  forsooth,  because  I  was  stupefied 
and  tired  out  by  the  day's  work;  and  then  again — a 
reason  which  makes  all  the  others  unnecessary — it 
had  been  like  that  for  three  or  four  thousand  nights. 

I  tried  to  reason  kindly  with  her,  although  this  in- 
justice had  slightly  wounded  me  at  heart.  She  was 
silent  at  first;  then  she  argued — her  condition  becom- 
ing worse — and  became  quarrelsome  and  perverse. 
She  went  so  far  as  to  name  others  to  me — weak- 
minded  friends  or  absurd  neighbours,  who  worked, 
she  insisted,  at  least  as  hard  as  I  did,  and  yet  made 
room  for  recreation. 

The  matter  of  our  evenings  is  only  an  example. 
Everything  became  an  excuse  to  her  for  fault-finding ; 
everything  turned  her  poor  little  head  upside  down. 
She  used  to  get  herself  into  a  terrible  state,  while  I, 
open-mouthed,  had  hardly  the  time  to  realise  what  it 
was  about. 

My  distressful  eyes  marked  the  increasing  progress 
of  these  caprices.  She  had  spells  of  silence  that  were 
worth  no  more  to  me — or  herself — than  her  shouts. 
She  emerged  from  those  times  with  red  eyes,  or  with 
martyr-like  contractions  of  her  face  that  distorted  it 
for  the  rest  of  the  day. 

This  was  neurasthenia  in  all  its  horror.  Doctor 
Cazeneuve,  whom  I  hurried  to  one  morning  before 
going  home,  confirmed  it,  and  prescribed  bromide  and 
a  life  without  shocks.  In  distraction  I  stammered 
the  word  "insanity."  He  shook  his  spectacled  head, 
and  then  with  a  kindly  smile  advised  me  to  be  hope- 


140  WE  OTHERS 

ful,  "granting  the  state  of  the  poor  child's  general 
health." 

Bromide  and  a  peaceful  life  brought  no  improve- 
ment. Her  mental  malady  got  worse,  and  assumed 
another  shape.  Besides  her  absorption  in  the  corners 
of  the  room,  when  she  withdrew  within  herself  as 
behind  a  veil,  she  had  now  sudden  fits  of  nervous 
merriment,  and  moments  of  inspiration  when  she 
stood  upright  with  the  face  of  a  nun,  and  all  trem- 
bling. One  summer  morning,  as  she  was  opening  the 
window,  she  began  to  laugh  magnificently — and  that 
laugh  hurt  me. 

I  was  very  unhappy;  I  pitied  her.  Then,  too,  like 
all  sedate  and  matter-of-fact  people,  I  had  a  horror  of 
all  abnormal,  morbid,  and  mysterious  things.  I  would 
rather  have  been  trailing  a  broken  leg  about  than  a 
woman  whose  reason  faltered,  and  whose  delusions 
shook  her  like  a  rag. 

Thus  it  was  that  the  great  evening  in  question  came. 

If  that  evening  was  an  extraordinary  one,  it  was 
so,  first,  because  there  was  nothing  special  about  it. 
It  was  exactly  like  the  former  ones,  which  all  re- 
sembled each  other  like  drops  of  falling  water.  We 
were  sitting  in  our  armchairs,  at  our  respective  cor- 
ners of  the  fireplace.  On  the  green  wallpaper  the 
English  engraving  preserved  its  familiar  immobility. 
The  chandelier  hung  there,  with  its  trembling  rattle 
when  a  motor-bus  went  by;  and  the  tick-tick  of  the 
clock  continued  to  be  a  noise  and  a  silence  at  the 
same  time. 

She  was  looking  in  front  of  her,  with  distant  eye. 

Then  suddenly,  as  I  followed  her  gaze,  I  felt — I 


THE  APPARITION  141 

saw,  my  friends — that  there  was  some  one  facing 
her.  There  was  some  one  at  whom  she  was  looking. 

Ah,  what  a  discovery,  what  a  theatrical  happening 
in  the  eternal  set-piece  of  our  room! 

Some  one — a  man,  a  rival,  a  sort  of  robber !  Though 
she  was  alone  with  me,  she  was  above  all  alone  with 
another ! 

Yes,  yes;  no  doubt  about  it.  There  were  infinite 
looks  in  her  eyes,  even  when  they  rested  on  me;  an 
engrossed  way  of  preserving  silence,  even  when  she 
indicated  yes  or  no  to  me  with  her  head,  which  con- 
fessed all.  Some  one!  Some  one  opposite  her,  be- 
side her,  standing  invisible  like  the  gods  of  legends, 
but  a  real  man — worse  than  a  god !  A  man  precisely, 
with  his  masculine,  sensuous  face ;  I  did  not  know  him, 
I  did  not  invent  him — I  believed  in  him,  I  believed  in 
him. 

He  had  come  to  her,  and  he  was  there  now.  Every- 
thing pointed  him  out  to  me  more  and  more  clearly. 
She  smiled  weakly,  and  my  wild  eyes  gathered  the 
entangled  reflection ;  she  sighed,  and  I  understood  well 
enough  that  the  sigh  spoke  first  to  him. 

Having  begun  to  understand,  I  went  on  without 
pause. 

The  timidity  impressed  upon  her,  her  hesitating 
ways,  something  chilly  in  her  gestures,  showed  me 
how  near  he  was.  Her  eyes — full  of  languor  and 
visions — were  half  closed  one  moment,  and  I  saw 
clearly  that  she  was  growing  bolder,  and  that  he  was 
touching  her. 

Thus,  nothing  supernatural  had  happened.  There 
was  no  illness,  no  insanity.  The  only  changed  thing 


142  WE  OTHERS 

was  a  heart — and  one  never  has  the  right  to  say  that 
a  heart  is  mad.  All  became  clear  and  logical,  by  rea- 
son of  a  newcomer  unknown  to  me,  and  still  deli- 
ciously  unknown  to  her,  some  one  for  whom  she  was 
coming  to  life  again. 

All  the  former  complication  was  unravelling  itself; 
all  was  being  explained  with  fatal  simplicity.  The 
faint  glory  that  she  seemed  sometimes  to  wear,  her 
tremblings — unformed  confessions  of  longing,  at  first 
unconscious  and  then  unutterable — the  rapture  that 
stealthily  caressed  her  face,  these  were  right.  And 
her  malice,  her  anger,  her  injustice  were  right.  I  who 
had  thought  myself  to  be  the  strong-minded  victim, 
I  had  been  the  madman  and  the  hangman. 

So  when,  my  friends,  without  any  transition,  with- 
out any  paving  the  way  or  explanation,  I  said,  "Then 
we  must  part,"  she  replied,  "Yes." 

So  saying,  Etienne  plunged  the  glance  of  his  light- 
less  green  eyes  into  a  glass  of  absinthe,  and,  letting  it 
filter  through  his  drooping  moustache,  he  swallowed 
the  potion. 


THE  LAST  STEPS 

HpOGETHER  they  were  a  century  and  a  half  old. 
•*-  Their  ages  separately?  Neither  of  them  knew. 
It  was  so  long  since  they  had  ceased  to  make  that 
division  in  their  years;  their  natural  and  reasonable 
habit  of  being  two  years  older  together,  every  St. 
Sylvester's  Day,  was  too  old. 

So  many  days,  so  many  seasons,  so  many  years 
had  they  lived  side  by  side  in  the  low-built  farmhouse 
whose  roof  overflowed  like  wings!  It  would  have 
astonished  them  for  a  moment  had  you  told  them  they 
had  not  always  been  married. 

They  each  retained  something  of  a  shadowy  mem- 
ory, and  were  more  like  each  other  than  a  brother  and 
a  sister.  When  the  village  folk  saw  them  strolling, 
so  feeble,  and  yet  so  strongly  united,  they  could  not 
help  thinking  that  one  of  them  would  soon  die,  and 
that  then  the  other  would  not  be  able  to  remain  alone. 

Winter  was  unkind  to  the  two  ancients.  It  handled 
their  old  windpipes  roughly,  broke  down  their  backs 
a  little,  hollowed  their  bony  cheeks  and  their  ruined 
jaws.  He  could  see  a  grey  veil  before  his  eyes;  she 
had  attacks  of  dizziness.  When  May  arrived,  they 
felt  themselves  less  caressed  by  the  shade,  and  less 
bold  in  the  sunshine.  Life  became  hard  of  living,  like 
the  time  when  they  earned  it.  It  was  almost  a  labour 


144  WE  OTHERS 

to  start  out  from  the  morning  so  as  to  arrive  at  the 
evening. 

One  day  when  he  was  sitting  in  front  of  the  house, 
a  little  more  motionless  than  the  day  before,  she  went 
off  to  get  some  grass  for  the  rabbits.  As  soon  as  she 
was  on  the  other  side  of  the  little  gate  contrived  in 
the  fence,  she  stopped  to  take  breath.  That  was  the 
first  stage  of  the  journey.  Then  she  went  on  along 
the  road.  From  the  seat  where  he  was  sitting,  like 
a  child  too  well-behaved,  the  old  man's  hazy  eyes  could 
not  make  her  out,  but  he  heard  the  sound  of  her  steps. 
He  shut  his  eyes,  so  that  he  could  see  her  going  away. 

When  she  arrived  at  the  corner  of  the  main  street, 
opposite  the  respectable  house  of  the  Guichet  ladies, 
the  old  woman  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  fell  down, 
with  no  cry  and  no  gesture,  neither  in  falling  nor  after. 

A  passer-by  stopped,  and  a  little  girl  came  skipping 
up.  One  good  wife  and  then  another  appeared.  They 
carried  her  into  a  shop,  and  saw  at  once  that  she  was 
dead. 

Houses  emptied  themselves ;  the  shop  and  its  vicin- 
ity became  black  with  people.  She  was  laid  out  on 
three  chairs;  and  her  yellow  face,  slightly  grimacing, 
seemed  like  a  terrible  portrait  of  her  they  had  known. 

"The  old  man  must  be  told/'  some  one  said. 

"No!"  some  voices  cried;  "not  him — his  daughter- 
in-law  first.  There  she  is.  Hey,  Marguerite!" 

The  woman  came  up,  ugly  and  timid,  with  her  dress 
hanging  loosely  from  her  scanty  shoulders,  her  cheeks 
dried  and  grey  as  poor  bread.  Her  calling — she  was 
a  washerwoman — had  boiled  her  hands,  and  she  swung 
them  like  parcels. 


THE  LAST  STEPS  145 

When  she  saw  the  body  of  her  man's  mother — he 
too  had  been  gone  a  long  time  and  she  was  just  be- 
ginning to  forget  him — Marguerite  trembled  from 
head  to  foot.  Her  lips  went  white  and  her  big  eyes 
rolled  in  her  flat  face.  She  sniffled,  rubbed  her  nose 
with  her  apron,  and  whispered,  "Poor  old  man!" 

She  turned  awkwardly  to  the  crowd,  without  look- 
ing at  anybody.  "No  one  must  tell  the  old  man;  I'll 
tell  him  myself."  And  she  made  a  grimace  of  en- 
treaty. 

Then  the  black  patch  of  the  crowd  broke  up  in  all 
directions,  grew  lighter,  and  faded  away. 

Marguerite  had  the  corpse  carried  to  her  own  bed. 
When  she  had  hastily  arranged  the  room,  she  went 
to  the  old  man.  Seated  in  front  of  his  house,  under 
the  wing-like  edge  of  the  roof,  he  was  waiting. 

As  the  wooden  gate  slammed,  he  started,  and  raised 
his  head. 

"It's  me,"  said  Marguerite.  He  became  again  like 
a  statue.  "Come,  Victor,  it's  time  to  go  in." 

Then  he  groaned  funnily,  got  up,  and  groaned  again. 
Upright,  he  stretched  his  arms  out  in  front  of  him, 
and  swayed.  There  seemed  to  be  something  shining 
in  his  face. 

"Well,  what  is  there?"  she  asked. 

"I  can't  see,  I  can't  see  anything  at  all!"  he  said. 

"Ah!"  said  Marguerite.  It  was  the  simplicity  of 
her  soul,  no  doubt,  that  made  her  ready  for  all  great 
tragedies,  for  she  said  no  more.  She  only  took  the 
arm  of  the  man  who  had  gone  blind  at  the  very  mo- 
ment of  his  eternal  comrade's  disappearance. 

Dragging   his   feet,   he   was   led   firmly   into   the 


146  WE  OTHERS 

kitchen ;  he  touched  the  back  of  a  chair,  and  sat  down. 
But  his  breath  came  harshly;  he  sighed,  grumbled, 
and  just  when  she  was  going  to  speak,  to  tell  him — 
he  groaned. 

"They're  done  for — my  eyes!  That,  above  all, 
that!"  he  cried  suddenly. 

For  several  hours  he  could  do  nothing  but  grieve. 

In  a  moment  of  intermission  he  asked  for  his  wife. 
"Where's  the  old  lady?  What's  she  doing,  by  God!" 
Another  time,  between  two  attacks  of  melancholy,  she 
saw  that  he  had  gathered  his  wits  and  was  waiting 
for  his  wife.  Then  he  uttered  complaints,  gripped 
again  by  the  fit,  knowing  only  that  he  was  ill  and 
afraid. 

Several  people  came.  Some  went  in ;  others  looked 
through  the  window;  but  no  one  dared  speak  to  him. 

When  the  day  had  passed  without  his  knowing  the 
truth,  no  one  else  dared  come. 

From  time  to  time  Marguerite  left  him,  and  locked 
him  in.  She  hurried,  her  face  soiled  with  wiping  tears 
away.  She  went  to  see  the  dead  woman  again,  who 
was  gradually  disappearing  in  the  night,  in  spite  of 
the  two  candles.  Then  she  plunged  into  errands,  and 
making  arrangements.  She  thought  of  everything, 
always  weary  and  always  running,  automatic  and 
heroic,  overwhelmed  yet  insuperable.  She  knew  well 
enough  what  had  to  be  done,  she  of  mourning  per- 
petual, she  who  was  so  used  to  surviving! 

She  was  once  more  beside  him  when,  between  eve- 
ning and  night,  there  came  a  lull  in  his  grief,  which 
began  weakly,  and  grew  longer,  and  longer. 

The  woman  lighted  a  little  spirit-lamp  and  placed 


THE  LAST  STEPS  147 

it  on  the  high  mantelpiece,  and  thought  the  moment 
had  come  to  tell  the  old  man  that  she  who  had  always 
been  was  no  more.  She  planted  herself  in  front  of 
him,  as  fleshless  and  as  trembling  as  a  scarecrow  in 
a  wintry  gale.  Her  head  drooped  as  in  shame;  and 
summoning  all  her  strength,  as  if  to  shout,  she  stam- 
mered, "She  won't  come  back  any  more — she  can't 
— she's  gone  away." 

He  did  not  speak.  She  looked  at  him  then,  and  saw 
that  he  was  smiling — and  asleep. 

She  sidled  off,  and  began  to  tidy  things,  very  gently. 
Suddenly  he  moved  and  called  her.  She  went  up  so 
near  to  him  that  he  could  touch  her  arm  with  his  blind 
fingers. 

"Listen,  my  girl,"  he  said,  "come  here;  listen.  The 
old  woman  has  come  back.  She's  here.  I  saw  her 
there,  just  now,  there  where  you  are.  I  was  asleep, 
and  suddenly  I  knew  she  was  there.  She  arranged 
things,  and  went  away  again.  I  didn't  move,  and  I 
didn't  speak,  on  purpose.  Listen ;  I  don't  want  her  to 
know  that  I  can't  see.  I  don't  want — it'll  pain  her 
too  much.  I  won't  have  it.  Make  her  go  away  just 
a  little  while,  until  I'm  well  again.  Think  of  some 
way,  my  girl." 

He  bestirred  himself  on  the  old  seat,  which  groaned 
and  seemed  to  be  speaking. 

"Take  her  away.  Let  her  go  away  for  a  day,  or 
more,  if  necessary.  Tell  her — take  her  away." 

"That's  good,  Victor;  I'll  see  about  it.  I  know. 
She  shan't  know — I  swear  it  by  the  good  Lord." 

The  oath  affected  the  old  man,  and  he  said,  "You're 
a  good  girl,"  and  fell  upon  religious  silence. 


148  WE  OTHERS 

The  next  day  she  told  him  an  unlikely  story  of  re- 
lations who  had  taken  the  old  lady  home  with  them. 
He  listened  in  wondering  interest,  like  a  very  little 
child.  When  she  had  finished,  he  said,  "Then,  too,  I 
know  she's  been  back  again,  last  night,  while  I  was 
asleep;  I  heard  her." 

"Yes;  she  came  back,"  said  Marguerite,  softly. 

Thus  two  days  went  by.  The  day  after  they  had 
buried  the  old  woman,  the  doctor  came  to  examine  the 
stricken  man. 

"Very  good!"  he  said,  against  all  expectations; 
"there  is  hardly  any  fever,  and  the  inflammation  is 
passing  away.  To-morrow  he  will  see." 

She  had  taken  refuge  in  a  corner,  stupefied  and 
shrinking.  "Yes.  To-morrow — to-morrow " 

Down  in  her  dark  soul  she  repeated,  very  quietly, 
"To-morrow!" 

To-morrow  he  would  open  his  eyes,  and  then,  really 
blind,  he  would  not  see  her!  To-morrow  his  lowly 
relation  would  be  punished  in  her  heart  for  her  silence, 
as  she  would  have  been  punished  had  she  spoken.  To- 
morrow! It  is  always  so  in  life.  There  is  always  a 
morrow  when  all  ends  badly,  and  the  day  of  peace  or 
of  hope  that  one  has  sometimes  is  always  only  the 
eve  of  another. 


THE  PRESENCE 

DID  he  kiss  you?"  Bertha  asked  her  old  friend. 
"Yes,  on  the  cheek." 

"And  what  did  he  say?" 

"He  said,  I'm  going  away,  but  I  shall  come  back 
to  marry  you,  in  spite  of  all,  in  spite  of  everybody. 
I  shall  return  famous.' ' 

"He  said  nothing  else?" 

"Yes, — vows,  and  desperate  promises,  and  all  one 
can  say.  That  was  in  my  grandmother's  house,  in  the 
Rue  Neuve.  Yes,  it  was  from  there  that  he  went 
away,  with  his  long  golden  hair. 

"Then  I  began  to  wait.  It  was  agreed  that  we 
should  not  write  to  each  other,  since  my  parents  for- 
bade it.  That  didn't  matter;  we  knew  well  enough 
that  we  were  thinking  of  each  other.  I  awaited  his 
return  one  year,  two,  three,  four. 

"At  the  end  of  the  fourth  year  we  saw  his  por- 
trait here,  in  an  illustrated  paper,  which  spoke  of  his 
first  excellent  work  and  of  his  still  brighter  future. 

"This  first  echo  of  fame,  which  showed  me  his 
promise  coming  to  reality,  excited  me.  I  thought  our 
meeting  was  near.  I  got  ready  for  his  sending  for 
me  or  his  coming  to  me.  I  waited  for  a  sign  from 
him. 

"No  doubt  he,  too,  was  waiting  for  a  sign  from 
me,  or  perhaps  there  was  something  else.  But  little 

149 


ISO  WE  OTHERS 

by  little  the  months  and  years  went  by.  Our  separa- 
tion remained ;  and  little  by  little  he  never  came  back. 
My  great  man,  my  wonderful  fiance,  I  have  only  seen 
him  since  in  newspaper  illustrations,  on  picture  post- 
cards, and  in  that  statuette  there,  which  they  unveiled 
three  years  after  his  death,  three  years  ago." 

Madame  Louis  lifted  the  falling  cloud  of  the  lace 
curtain,  and  looked  through  the  window  at  the  public 
square,  embroidered  with  pointed  roofs,  and  as  grey 
as  if  it  were  raining.  Twilight  was  beginning  peace- 
fully to  wash  away  the  colours,  leaving  still  intact  only 
the  black  silhouettes  of  roofs,  drawn  upon  the  sky. 
In  the  middle  of  the  square,  upon  a  pedestal,  one  could 
see  the  whitish  bust  projecting  that  the  town  had 
erected  in  honour  of  its  illustrious  citizen. 

The  lady  sank  back  into  the  feeble  twilight  of  the 
room.  She  was  not  quite  old,  and  still  retained  traces 
of  coquettishness.  Her  hair,  once  fair,  should  have 
been  grey,  but  it  was  yellow.  A  lace  collar  encircled 
her  neck. 

"When  I  understood  that  he  would  not  come  back 
any  more,  I  thought  I  should  die.  Then  I  married 
the  first  that  came,  a  gentleman  of  this  town.  Some 
years  after  my  marriage  his  fame  increased,  as  you 
know,  so  quickly,  so  quickly!  It  was  unique.  And 
soon  they  talked  of  no  one  but  him,  here  in  the  coun- 
try of  his  birth,  as  they  did  all  over  the  world.  As 
for  me,  it's  now  thirty-five  years  since  I  got  married." 

Bertha's  cap  nodded;  on  both  sides  of  it,  on  the 
rusty  temples,  were  black  bands  that  looked  as  if 
marked  on  with  ink.  Eager,  attentive,  sympathetic, 
and  wearing  a  long  black  dress  with  stuff-covered  but- 


THE  PRESENCE  151 

tons,  she  looked  like  a  priest.  She  leaned  forward, 
so  that  she  could  see  Madame  Louis  better,  and  take 
in  what  she  said. 

"How  sorry  you  must  be  not  to  have  married  such 
a  man!" 

"No,"  said  the  lady. 

"You  are  resigned  to  your  lot?'* 

Madame  Louis'  gesture  meant  "no"  again. 

"I  have  no  cause  to  be  resigned,"  she  said;  "I  am 
lucky  in  not  having  committed  the  folly  of  marrying 
my  first  fiance." 

"You  were  afraid  that  a  great  artist " 

"It's  not  that.  It's  because  he's  dead.  But  the 
other,  mine,  he  who  was  not  equal  to  him  formerly, 
he  lives,  he  lives!  We  are  alive!  He  has  no  talent; 
he  does  not  even  understand  what  fame  is ;  he's  almost 
nothing.  But  he's  there,  and  I  have  him.  Our  every- 
day life  is  without  attractiveness;  it  might  be  deaf 
and  blind ;  it's  useless ;  it's  whatever  you  like,  but  it  is. 
We  are  living,  we  continue  to  live,  we  are  part  of 
reality.  I  am  not  all  alone,  walled  up  in  a  house  too 
big,  with  a  frigid  memory,  shrouded  with  sorrow, 
struck  off  the  list  of  the  living! 

"Morning,  evening,  and  night,  some  one  lives  beside 
me,  standing,  sitting,  lying.  Every  minute  my  poor 
husband  touches  me,  elbows  me.  At  daybreak,  when 
a  little  light  comes  between  the  curtains  into  the  heavy 
night  of  our  bedroom,  if  I  wake  up  first,  and  if,  among 
the  still  shapeless  furniture,  I  see  him  asleep  by  my 
side,  his  big  face  all  grey,  and  buried  in  the  pillow,  the 
meaning  of  emptiness  is  revealed  to  me.  I  start  and 
stifle  a  cry.  Then  he  moves,  sighs,  breathes,  and  sits 


152  WE  OTHERS 

up,  stammering;  and  I  realise  that  life  is,  after  all, 
everything;  and  that  the  rest — past  or  otherwise — 
hardly  counts. 

"We  exchange  words  from  time  to  time — never  un- 
usual— good  morning,  thanks,  yes,  no — but  when  one 
thinks  of  the  silence  of  death  and  of  memory,  those 
words  begin  to  assume  a  real  significance  which  has 
no  end." 

She  shook  her  head:  "Yes,  yes,  yes/'  she  said. 
"Ah,  those  who  have  had  life  for  a  long  time  under- 
stand it  in  the  end,  and  in  the  end  they  become  miserly 
of  it.  And  then  they  esteem  the  remainder  of  a  poor 
present  creature  more  than  dazzling  phantoms, 
dreamed  of  or  disappeared. 

"Why,  it's  his  time — the  time  when  the  house  calls 
him.  There  he  is,  down  there,  coming  home." 

At  the  other  side  of  the  square,  on  the  edge  of  the 
pavement,  a  human  mass  was  standing,  enveloped  in 
overcoats.  The  gentleman  hesitated  to  cross  over; 
his  stick  trembled  at  the  end  of  a  stiffened  arm.  He 
was  looking  to  right  and  to  left,  to  make  sure  that  no 
vehicle  was  approaching  in  the  distance. 

At  last  he  ventured  into  the  roadway,  walking  with 
diligent,  uncertain  steps.  In  the  middle  of  the  square, 
opposite  the  predominant  monument  so  perfectly  white 
and  dead,  the  big  old  man  began  to  cough;  a  spasm 
of  coughing  shook  him  from  head  to  foot.  A  little 
farther  a  sudden  gust  of  wind  seized  him.  He  had 
hard  work  to  get  himself  -out  of  it.  Then  he  suc- 
ceeded in  reaching  the  kind  foot  path,  and  drew  near 
his  house. 

They  watched  him  finishing  the  last  steps  of  his 


THE  PRESENCE  153 

daily  walk,  and  now,  when  he  reached  the  door,  he 
put  his  hand  forth.  Truly  he  had  the  importance  and 
sweetness — nameless  but  limitless — of  survivors.  It 
was  true  that  the  coming  of  this  dull  old  man  brought 
with  it  a  kind  of  good  news. 

The  sunset,  diffusing  itself  colourlessly  everywhere, 
dominated  and  surpassed  all  the  sunsets  that  had  ever 
shone  upon  the  world,  for,  up  till  that  moment,  it  was 
the  last  sunset  of  all.  Through  the  grimy  clouds  and 
the  biting  wind,  over  all  the  damp  and  dirty  scene,  fell 
the  evening  which,  naturally,  was  the  evening  of  all 
evenings ;  and  the  end  of  that  pale  winter's  day  shone 
distinguished  above  the  centuries. 


THE  INNOCENT 

^ INHERE  are  some  people,  said  Jean  Brot,  who 
*•  gesticulate  and  run  this  way  and  that,  in  great 
emergencies,  like  game  surrounded ;  while  others,  after 
gaping,  fall  and  keep  silence  in  the  first  available  cor- 
ner. I  was  of  the  latter,  at  the  time  I  am  speaking  of, 
my  good  friends,  and  I  gave  way  pitifully  when  my 
beautiful  Regina,  driven  to  extremes  by  my  meekness 
and  patience,  had  triumphantly  exploded  her  infamy 
upon  me. 

I  can  see  again  in  detail  the  historic  scene  when  the 
fastidious  child's  vengeance  burst  upon  my  loyal  trust. 
Quivering  all  over,  I  went  to  find  her.  "Madame  is 
not  here,  but  she  is  coming  back  soon." 

"Very  well !"  I  growled.  I  went  like  a  gale  of  wind 
into  the  boudoir,  keeping  my  hat  and  overcoat  on,  and 
crushing  the  terrible  accusing  letter  in  my  shaking 
hand. 

Seated  on  the  edge  of  a  lacquered  armchair,  in  the 
nimbus  of  a  rosy-skirted  lamp,  I  waited  shivering  for 
five  hours  and  a  half.  Regina  came  back  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  Muffled  and  flippant  she  came, 
her  cheeks  pertly  pink,  and  her  big  magnificent  eyes 
all  shining. 

At  sight  of  me,  her  lips  parted,  as  if  to  set  up  some 
agreeable  alibi.  Without  saying  a  word,  I  flourished 
the  letter.  She  seized  it  and  ran  through  it. 

154 


THE  INNOCENT  155 

I  acknowledge  the  fortitude  which  that  frail  being 
showed  in  the  emergency.  There  was  hardly  the  least 
flutter  of  her  beautiful  eyelids,  adorned  with  lashes  as 
long  as  the  fringes  of  wings.  She  threw  the  unan- 
swerable paper  into  her  bag,  held  up  her  head,  eyed 
me  from  head  to  foot,  and  discovering  that  I  was 
wearing  my  hat,  she  called  me  a  cad. 

"Is  it  true,  all  that?"  I  stammered,  pointing  at  the 
letter  with  my  trembling  hand — a  slave's  impotent 
hand. 

"Yes,  it  is !"  she  cried,  in  an  extraordinary  transport 
of  fury;  "yes,  it  is,  it's  true;  and  besides  that,  there's 
this  as  well,  and  that,  and  this " 

And  with  all  her  might,  with  glittering  eyes,  and  in- 
domitable as  a  prima  donna  in  full  song,  she  related 
to  me  in  choice  detail  all  her  deceits  and  betrayals,  be- 
ginning at  the  end. 

And  having  spoken,  she  dismissed  me.  I  got  up  and 
went  towards  the  door,  bent  and  staggering.  She 
called  me  back.  Her  hand  fell  on  my  shoulder,  to 
guide  me  into  the  drawing-room,  where  I  went  with 
the  shaking  movements  of  the  suit  of  clothes  that 
hangs  outside  the  second-hand  dealer's  shop-front. 
Then,  with  a  defiant  air,  she  provided  me  with  supple- 
mentary details  of  one  of  the  most  recent  and  most 
cynical  episodes  of  our  mutual  life — if  I  may  put  it 
so.  Then  she  pushed  me  out,  assuring  me  that  I  should 
pay  dearly  for  having  treated  her  as  I  had,  and  that  I 
should  hear  from  her. 

I  did — and  the  way  she  did  it!  You  could  not 
imagine  the  ingenuity,  the  cleverness,  the  genius  that 
that  young  woman  displayed  in  order  to  make  life 


156  WE  OTHERS 

impossible  for  me.  She  slandered  me  in  all  directions 
with  a  naturalness  and  restraint  that  amounted  almost 
to  a  prodigy. 

It  was  in  vain  that  I  had  always  been  a  man  of 
scrupulous  propriety ;  I  became  an  ambiguous  and  sus- 
picious character.  As  I  came  along,  backs  were  turned 
on  me  one  after  another,  automatically;  hands  with- 
drew themselves  out  of  my  reach  like  frightened  birds. 

I  smiled  disdainfully.  Then  I  got  angry.  I  even 
reached  the  point  of  a  duel;  but  the  two  bullets  ex- 
changed had  no  reaction  on  my  moral  position. 

Therefore,  two  things  happened.  First,  not  only  did 
I  cease  to  love  Regina,  but  I  began  to  dislike  her  a  lit- 
tle, then  much,  then  fiercely.  Second,  I  lost  my  situa- 
tion, could  not  find  another,  and  one  fine  morning  saw 
me  crossing  crestfallen  the  gangway  of  a  steamer  for 
New  York,  my  second-class  ticket  being  my  whole 
fortune. 

In  the  land  of  Yankees  and  redskins  I  started  in  the 
humblest  of  callings.  That  is  a  good  omen  over  there, 
if  one  may  believe  the  biographers  of  the  multi-mil- 
lionaires. As  a  matter  of  fact,  I  became  rich. 

Do  you  think  that  my  hatred  of  the  miserable  crea- 
ture whose  animosity  towards  me  had  been  so  base 
and  so  complete,  died  away?  No;  on  the  contrary,  it 
increased  a  hundredfold.  I  was  racked  by  a  revenge- 
ful desire,  all  the  fiercer  that  I  now  had  the  means  to 
gratify  it.  I  tell  you  truthfully  that  some  evenings 
when  I  was  alone  in  my  Broadway  office,  I  literally 
cried  out  aloud  upon  a  specious  ghost,  whose  mouth 
had  at  once  the  form  of  a  cherry  and  a  heart,  and  who 


THE  INNOCENT  157 

wore,  under  the  darksome  curve  of  her  hat,  a  high 
crown  of  copper  and  gold. 

Different  circumstances  delayed  the  putting  into  ef- 
fect of  my  campaign  of  revenge.  But  I  was,  you  may 
easily  suppose,  well  informed  of  the  movements  and 
acts  of  the  fury  who  had  so  meticulously  dishonoured 
me.  Why  not  acknowledge  it?  A  special  office  in 
my  "skyscraper,"  under  the  pretext  of  inquiries  into 
the  latest  European  processes  in  printed  fabrics,  was 
actually  and  seriously  engaged  in  keeping  me  minutely 
informed  in  all  matters  concerning  the  Enemy.  I  fol- 
lowed her  with  my  eyes  as  do  those  necromancers  in 
fairy-tales,  who  at  great  distances  see  all  they  want 
to  see  by  virtue  of  the  magic  ointment  rubbed  on  their 
eyelids. 

When  I  alighted  in  Paris,  twelve  years  after  slip- 
ping away  in  such  severe  incognito,  my  plan  was  de- 
termined— to  appear  suddenly,  to  paralyse  her  with  the 
blunt  revelation  of  my  millions,  and  then  to  enumerate 
all  my  frightful  plans  of  vengeance,  before  putting 
them  mathematically  into  effect. 

Ah,  that  evening!  I  jumped  into  a  motor-car,  over- 
burdened, grinding  my  teeth,  ready  to  shout  aloud. 
We  went  like  lightning  to  the  doorway  of  a  mag- 
nificent building. 

"Madame  Regina?  Third  courtyard,  right  through. 
Fifth  floor/' 

I  crossed  the  courtyards  at  full  speed,  and  plunged 
into  a  lift  which  deposited  me,  with  French  tardiness, 
opposite  a  little  door.  The  electric  button  received  a 
blow  of  my  fist,  and  the  door  opened. 

"Madame  Regina?" 


158  WE  OTHERS 

"Come  in,  sir,"  said  the  maid. 

With  a  sigh  as  from  a  forge,  I  went  in  on  the  maid's 
heels,  into  a  narrow  corridor.  I  repeated  in.  a  hollow 
voice — a  shout  controlled — "Madame  Regina?" 

"I  am  she,"  calmly  replied  the  woman  whom  I  had 
taken  for  the  servant. 

My  mouth  opened  in  silence.  I  looked  at  her  and 
she  looked  at  me.  That  flabby  face,  weary  and  faded 
— in  irritation  I  made  a  violent  gesture  of  denial.  I 
roused  myself,  and  managed  to  say,  "There  is  some 
mistake;  there  is " 

Then  she  smiled  at  me,  and  that  smile,  like  a  pale 
and  mournful  light,  like  a  will-o'-th'-wisp,  brought 
back  to  me  a  light  of  bygone  days. 

My  hand  went  over  my  eyes  and  my  forehead: 
"Regina?  You?  No,  it  is  not  you — yes,  it  is — yes, 
it  is  you " 

"I  recognise  you,  Jean,"  said  she,  ever  so  tran- 
quilly; "we  are  no  longer  angry?" 

I  did  not  answer,  so  much  I  was  looking  at  her,  so 
much  I  was  trying  to  remember  her. 

That  was  what  she  had  become — she! 

She  was  entirely  despoiled,  wholly  disarmed  of  her 
beauty.  Her  eyelids  were  swollen,  her  mouth  become 
heavy,  her  face  jumbled  with  lines.  Her  attire  was 
careless,  her  dress  poor  and  thin.  Her  voice  was 
lower,  sleepy  and  weak. 

She  coughed,  embarrassed  by  the  awkward  silence. 
No  doubt  she  could  see  how,  planted  opposite  her,  it 
was  torturing  me  to  know  her  and  yet  not  know  her. 
She  turned  away;  and  the  most  awful  thing  of  all, 
my  friends,  is  that  that  was  the  only  moment  when 


THE  INNOCENT  159 

my  eyes,  searching  for  her  far  away,  were  able  really 
to  see  her  again. 

I  could  only  mutter,  'Twelve  years — it's  not  so  very 
long,  after  all — not  so  very  long." 

Again  she  ventured  her  feeble  smile  towards  me. 
It  was  an  answer,  her  only  answer.  When  one  looks 
at  and  touches  the  truth,  one  is  forced  to  believe  that 
there  are  in  our  deepest  depths  things  impossible,  but 
which  are,  all  the  same. 

Yes,  it  was  a  great  deal,  it  was  too  much,  for  it 
sufficed  to  turn  her  face  into  a  sort  of  ghost  of  what 
it  had  been,  and  to  change  it  entirely,  to  the  bottom 
of  her  eyes  and  her  voice!  Yes,  entirely,  entirely.  I 
drew  back,  unable  to  utter  a  word.  It  seemed  to  me 
that  there  was  nothing  like  it  in  the  world — a  drama 
so  simple.  I  went  back  down  the  dark  stairway,  feel- 
ing my  way  with  the  outstretched  hands  of  the  poor 
beggar  who  does  not  know  what  he  is  asking  for. 

It  was  not  very  complicated,  as  you  see.  I  had  not 
found  her  whom  I  sought.  She,  the  real  Regina,  the 
fatal  Circe  whose  resentment  had  disgraced  me  and 
hunted  me  down — I  should  never  see  her  again.  It 
was  ended;  revenge  had  escaped  me.  All  my  dream 
of  passionate  malice  had  faded  away  at  the  feet  of  a 
stranger,  of  an  innocent. 


AFFECTION 

September  25th,  1893. 

MY  DEAR  LITTLE  LOUIS, 

SO  it's  finished.  We  shall  not  see  each  other  again ; 
be  as  sure  of  that  as  I  am.  You  did  not  wish  it; 
you  would  have  submitted  to  everything  for  the  sake 
of  going  on,  but  we  had  to  separate,  so  that  you  could 
begin  your  life  again.  I  am  not  sorry  I  opposed  you 
— and  myself,  and  us — when  you  cried  so  much,  with 
your  head  buried  in  our  bed,  and  also  when  you  looked 
up,  twice,  with  your  poor  face  all  shining;  and  again, 
when  in  the  evening,  in  the  dark,  I  could  not  see  your 
tears  any  more,  though  I  could  feel  them,  bleeding  on 
to  my  hands. 

And  now  we  are  both  of  us  suffering  horribly.  It 
is  like  a  nightmare  to  me.  For  a  few  days  we  shall 
not  be  able  to  believe  it.  For  several  months  there 
will  be  the  ache  of  it.  Then  convalescence  will  come. 

Only  at  that  moment  shall  I  begin  again  to  write 
to  you,  since  we  have  settled  that  I  shall  write  to  you 
at  long  intervals.  This  bond  between  you  and  me  will 
be  the  only  one — for  you  will  never  know  my  address, 
never ! — but  it  will  prevent  our  separation  from  being 
wholly  laceration. 

I  kiss  you  one  last  time,  but  so  softly,  and  at  so 
great,  peaceful,  angelic  a  distance! 

****** 
160 


AFFECTION  161 

September  25th,  1894. 

MY  DEAR  LITTLE  LOUIS, 

I  am  talking  to  you  again  as  I  promised.  We  have 
not  been  "we"  for  a  year  already.  I  know  well,  mind, 
that  you  have  not  forgotten  me.  We  are  still  too 
much  blended  for  me  not  to  feel  your  pain  itself, 
every  time  I  think. 

All  the  same,  these  twelve  months  have  not  been 
quite  unavailing;  they  have  put  a  slight  veil  of  mourn- 
ing over  the  past.  A  veil  already !  Already  there  are 
little  things  that  diminish,  and  even  tiny  details  which 
are  dead.  We  notice  that,  don't  we,  when  by  chance 
one  of  them  comes  to  life  again? 

I  have  tried  to  recall  the  exact  look  that  you  had  on 
your  face  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  and  I  have  not 
quite  been  able  to  make  it  come. 

Will  you  try  to  imagine  my  first  looks?  You  will 
realise  how  everything  in  the  world  fades  away. 

The  other  day  I  smiled.  To  whom,  at  what?  At 
no  one;  at  nothing.  It  was  a  jolly  beam  of  sunshine 
along  a  lane  that  forced  me  to  smile  in  spite  of  my 
lips. 

I  had  already  for  some  time  been  trying  to  smile. 
It  had  seemed  to  me  impossible  to  learn  again  how. 
And  yet,  as  I  said,  I  smiled  one  day,  against  myself. 
I  want  you,  too,  more  and  more  often,  for  the  simple 
reason  of  the  fine  weather  or  even  of  the  future,  to 
raise  your  head  and  smile. 

****** 

December  I7th,  1899. 

Here  I  am  again  by  your  side,  my  little  Louis.  Am 
I  not  just  like  a  dream,  now  that  I  come  when  I  like, 


162  WE  OTHERS 

but  always  at  the  right  moment,  in  the  midst  of  the 
empty  darkness,  now  that  I  come  and  go  quite  near 
and  yet  cannot  be  touched? 

I  am  not  unhappy.  I  have  taken  courage  again,  by 
new  mornings  and  new  seasons  repeated.  The  sun  is 
so  friendly  and  confiding,  and  even  simple  daylight  is 
so  sensible! 

I  have  danced  once.  I  have  laughed  often.  At 
first  I  used  to  count  the  times  when  I  laughed  and 
then  it  became  no  longer  possible  to  count  them. 

Yesterday  I  saw  .,  fete  at  sunset.  The  people  were 
lolling  on  the  ground,  like  a  beautiful  garden;  and  I 
thought  myself  happy  to  be  there,  while  all  that  multi- 
tude was  happy  too. 

I  am  writing  to  tell  you  that,  and  that  I  am  turning 
to  a  new  religion  in  you — Affection.  We  used  to  talk 
about  it  before,  without  really  knowing  it.  Let  us 
pray  together  that  we  may  believe  in  it,  from  the  bot- 
tom of  our  hearts. 


July  6th,  1904. 

The  years  are  going  by.  Eleven  years!  I  went 
a  long  way  off,  I  have  come  back.  I  am  going  away 
again. 

No  doubt  you  have  got  a  home,  and  no  doubt,  my 
big  Louis,  a  little  family,  to  whom  your  life  is  mate- 
rial. 

And  yourself,  how  are  you?  I  fancy  to  myself 
that  your  face  is  fuller,  your  shoulders  broader.  For 
a  certainty  you  have  few  white  hairs,  and  for  a  cer- 


AFFECTION  163 

tainty,  too,  your  face  has  still  the  same  way  of  light- 
ing up  before  you  smile. 

And  I  ?  I  will  not  tell  you  how  changed  I  am  into 
an  old  woman.  Old !  Women  age  more  quickly  than 
men,  and  if  I  could  be  by  your  side,  I  should  look  like 
your  mother,  both  by  the  look  of  years  and  by  all  that 
I  have  got  of  you  in  my  eyes. 

You  see  how  right  we  were  to  leave  each  other  like 
that,  now  that  calm  has  returned,  now  that  it  was 
almost  heedlessly  you  recognised  my  writing  on  the 

envelope  a  minute  ago. 

****** 

September  25th,  1893. 
MY  DEAR  Louis, 

It  is  twenty  years  now  since  we  left  each  other. 

My  dear  Louis,  /  have  been  dead  for  the  same 
period.  If  you  live  long  enough  to  read  this  letter, 
sent  to  you  by  the  same  reliable  and  conscientious 
hands  that  posted  the  others  all  through  the  years,  you 
will  have  forgotten  me,  and  you  will  forgive  me  for 
having  killed  myself  the  day  after  our  separation,  in 
my  impotence,  and  not  knowing  how  to  live  without 
you. 

Yesterday  we  parted.  Look  at  the  date  again,  at 
the  head  of  this  letter — which  you  did  not  see  clearly. 
It  was  yesterday  that  you  were  sobbing  in  our  room, 
your  head  buried  in  the  bed,  overcome  by  your  weak- 
ness and  your  huge  childlike  sorrow.  Yesterday,  near 
the  half-open  window,  when  night  had  fallen,  your 
tears  ran  blindly  over  my  hands.  It  was  yesterday 
that  you  protested,  and  that  I — I  said  nothing,  with 
all  my  might. 


164  WE  OTHERS 

And  now  to-day,  in  the  company  of  all  our  things, 
in  our  little  sublime  surroundings,  on  our  table,  I  have 
written  the  four  letters  you  have  received  at  long  in- 
tervals, and  there  I  am  finishing  this  one,  which  fin- 
ishes all. 

This  evening  I  shall  religiously  make  all  the  ar- 
rangements for  the  letters  to  come  to  you  on  their 
dates,  and  also  for  myself  never  to  be  found  again. 

Then  I  shall  disappear  from  life.  It  is  no  use  to 
ask  yourself  how ;  a  precise  detail  of  those  ugly  things 
would  leave  a  stain,  and  might  cause  you  fresh  pain, 
even  after  so  many  years. 

The  chief  thing  is  that  I  may  succeed  in  detaching 
you  from  me,  not  by  the  shock  of  wounds,  but  with 
care  and  caresses.  I  want  to  outlive  myself  so  that 
I  may  do  this  for  you.  There  will  be  no  anguish ;  you 
could  not  stand  it,  perhaps,  with  your  acute  sensitive- 
ness. So  I  shall  come  back  to  you,  seldom  enough  and 
often  enough  to  obliterate  myself  little  by  little  from 
your  eyes,  and  at  the  same  time  to  spare  your  heart. 
And  when  I  do  come  to  tell  you  the  truth,  I  shall  have 
gained  enough  time  to  prevent  you  almost  from  un- 
derstanding all  that  my  death  means. 

Oh,  my  little  Louis!  It  seems  to  me  as  if  there 
was  something  of  a  hideous  miracle  in  this  last  talk 
of  to-day,  in  which  we  speak  and  hear  each  other  so 
quietly  and  so  far  away,  I  who  am  only  you  now,  you 
who  hardly  any  longer  know  who  I  was — to-day  when 
the  word  "now"  has  a  prodigiously  different  meaning 
on  the  lips  of  those  who  murmur  it  as  they  write  it, 
and  those  who  murmur  it  as  they  read  it ! 

Now,  across  an  immense  space  of  time,  across  eter- 


AFFECTION  165 

nity — although  that  may  seem  absurd — I  am  really 
kissing  you.  And  then — I  stop  myself.  For  I  dare 
not  confess  to  you,  for  fear  of  making  myself  sad, 
which  is  naughty,  all  that  one  may  madly  dream  of 
about  love,  which  is  so  great,  and  about  Affection, 
which  is  too  great. 


BOOK  III 
PITY 


THE  EVIL  EYE 

T  IKE  a  curtain,  evening  was  veiling  the  little 
••— '  house  on  the  edge  of  the  village,  the  little  house 
with  a  hat  of  thatch  and  a  feather  of  smoke  in  it. 

People  who  passed  that  way  had  to  open  their  eyes 
wide  to  see  three  very  small  creatures  on  the  seat  in 
front,  three  childish  creatures,  of  whom  two  laughed 
aloud,  and  the  other  in  a  very  low  tone. 

The  three  whitish-grey  things  that  so  resembled 
each  other  against  the  bluish  cottage  (which  had  two 
round  windows,  like  spectacles,  and  a  flat  doorway) 
were  a  very  old  man,  a  very  small  child,  and  a  doll. 

That  was  all  that  was  left  of  the  family  once  dwell- 
ing there,  between  the  fields  and  the  other  houses. 
Fate  had  in  turn  taken  away  the  man,  the  woman,  and 
the  grandmother.  Jean- Jean  x  and  Grandpa  Pierrot 
held  on  alone,  at  either  end  of  a  long  series  of  sorrows. 
Between  the  two  of  them — a  tremendous  void.  But 
they  were  not  of  an  age  when  one  can  see  such  a  gap. 
One  of  them  no  longer  knew  what  the  other  did  not 
yet  know,  and  they  played  together  with  all  their 
heart. 

Now,  that  very  evening,  when  all  the  people  they 
knew  had  gone  by,  two  strange  beings,  with  tapering 
snouts  and  flashing  eyes,  turned  into  the  cross-ways. 

1  French  babies  give  themselves   the  trouble  of  doubling  the 
single  syllables  with  which  they  begin  to  speak. 

169 


170  WE  OTHERS 

They  were  very  disconcerting  to  see,  by  reason  of  their 
long  cloaks  and  bad  looks,  and  above  all  because  one 
of  them  was  crying. 

The  sparkling  eyes  settled  on  the  night-dulled  hut, 
by  the  door  of  which  a  pleasing  bush  trembled  with 
little  white  faces.  The  sharp-featured  phantoms  signed 
to  each  other,  ringer  on  lip. 

Then  they  came  to  a  standstill,  and  buried  them- 
selves in  the  falling  dark.  When  it  was  thick  enough, 
they  exhumed  themselves  and  crept  towards  the  cot- 
tage, now  shut  up  and  asleep.  Touched  in  a  mysteri- 
ous fashion,  the  door  opened.  They  entered  without 
making  the  least  noise,  like  a  nightmare  in  person. 

They  came  out  carrying  something  light-coloured, 
left  the  door  half  open — the  devilish  smell  of  a  drug 
breathed  from  it — and  both  slipped  away,  their  for- 
midable heads  pricked  forward. 

They  descended  a  footpath,  steep  and  perilous  as 
a  rung-robbed  ladder,  and  arrived  on  the  edge  of  the 
torrent.  There,  behind  a  clump  of  hazels,  arose  a  sort 
of  quivering  shanty — no,  a  van.  The  horse's  shoes 
were  wrapped  up  in  grass,  and  the  van  bristled  with 
branches,  no  doubt  so  that  it  would  look  by  day, 
against  the  verdant  background  of  the  river's  banks, 
something  like  a  bush. 

By  the  light  of  a  lantern  suddenly  opened  four  paws 
unfolded  the  stolen  bundle.  Between  the  two  stoop- 
ing shadows  shone  a  child  of  two  years,  asleep.  They 
undressed  Jean-Jean.  When  he  was  white  as  an  angel, 
the  creature  that  was  crying  just  before  smiled.  They 
slipped  onto  the  child,  who  slept  heavily,  by  reason  of 
the  drug,  some  little  many-coloured  clothes  which  they 


THE  EVIL  EYE  171 

got  from  a  bundle  of  wearing  apparel.  It  was  a  fine 
costume;  one,  no  doubt,  which  some  other  child  as 
limited  as  he  had  left  behind  when  he  started  for  the 
queer  paradise  of  the  wild  people. 

Jean- Jean's  bonnet  was  placed  on  the  slippery  edge 
of  the  furious  torrent,  and  the  exotic  river-poachers' 
van  resumed  its  muffled  march  across  the  world. 

On  the  straw  of  the  cart  little  Jean- Jean  still  slept, 
not  far  from  a  net  made  of  grass,  and  some  trout 
that  shone  like  shillings.  This  lowly  association  made 
at  the  same  time  a  difference  and  a  resemblance  be- 
tween the  child  Jesus  in  his  manger  and  this  new- 
comer into  the  universe. 

It  was  only  at  the  end  of  the  afternoon,  in  the  cot- 
tage with  the  door  ajar,  that  old  Pierrot  awoke  by 
the  side  of  the  empty  cradle.  His  dull  head  rolled 
from  right  to  left  on  the  pillow,  but  at  last  he  opened 
the  eyelids  of  yellow  paper. 

What  shouts,  what  sobs,  what  dismay!  All  the 
village  was  roused,  such  entreaties  he  made  to  one 
and  the  other! 

They  found  the  bonnet  on  the  steep  bank,  at  the 
foot  of  which  the  torrent  raged  without  ceasing,  and 
shattered  the  stones.  They  understood  everything. 
The  old  man  had  not  awakened  as  usual,  and  the 
child  had  dragged  itself  outside,  and  all  the  way — 
there.  They  did  not  find  the  body,  so  there  was  no 
funeral. 

When  he  knew  that  the  gentlemen's  searches  had 
not  worked  a  miracle,  in  spite  of  all  the  childish  trust 
he  had  put  in  them,  the  old  fellow  became  mournfully 
appeased.  He  stopped  groaning  and  whimpering,  re- 


172  WE  OTHERS 

turned  very  docile  to  the  house,  and  sat  down  with 
his  hands  on  his  knees,  orphaned  at  last  of  everybody. 

Theodore,  the  grandfather  of  the  mill,  who  had  for- 
merly been — it  was  so  long  before! — his  cousin,  came 
to  see  him  and  keep  him  company.  To  that  end,  he 
sat  down  beside  him  and  said  nothing,  his  mouth  and 
his  thoughts  being  occupied  with  his  pipe. 

But  Pierrot,  then,  spoke  a  little.  He  humoured 
himself,  in  presence  of  Theodore,  by  enumerating  the 
young  ones  and  little  ones  that  he  had  seen  die  round 
about  him.  It  began  with  Jeannot,  Alexandrine, 
Thibaut.  He  recited  these  names,  in  the  same  mo- 
notonous eternal  order,  as  others  apply  themselves  to 
a  mournful  song. 

Once,  as  he  filled  his  pipe,  Theodore  spoke,  and 
said:  "Perhaps  you've  got  the  evil  eye." 

It  was  a  burst  of  light.  As  soon  as  the  sentence 
was  spoken,  both  men  opened  their  mouths  and  wagged 
their  heads.  Then  Pierrot  muttered:  "I've  got  the 
evil  eye,"  and  Theodore,  who  had  resumed  the  silence 
of  his  pipe,  began  softly  to  think  about  it,  and  did 
not  leave  off  again. 

There  was  no  more  question  of  it.  That  accounted 
for  all — Jeannot,  Alexandrine,  Thibaut,  and  the  oth- 
ers; and  especially  Jean- Jean. 

Pierrot  isolated  himself  at  home.  The  schoolmas- 
ter affirmed,  to  several  people,  that  he  would  begin  to 
fret  if  left  alone,  and  that  he  ought  to  see  people. 

Victorine  came  and  said  to  him,  "You  must  see 
people — so-and-so,  and  so-and-so." 

He  shook  his  head :    "I've  got  the  evil  eye." 


THE  EVIL  EYE  173 

"The  evil  eye — that's  true?"  said  the  gossip,  un- 
easily. 

"Yes,"  he  replied. 

"You  never  said  so,"  she  grumbled. 

She  went  away,  looking  askance  and  sniffling.  Be- 
fore that,  she  used  hardly  to  believe  those  stories. 
But  when  one  is  getting  old,  one  must  not  be  so  fas- 
tidious, nor  risk  tempting  Fate. 

He  shut  himself  up  more  and  more  in  the  twi- 
light of  his  house  and  in  the  night  of  himself.  He 
kept  his  eyes  shut,  so  that  he  could  see  the  little  dead 
one,  and  so  as  not  to  do  harm  to  little  living  ones  by 
seeing  them. 

He  believed  so  deeply  in  the  sorcery  of  his  looks 
that  he  held  his  hand  over  his  eyes  as  soon  as  he 
heard  tiny  footsteps  approaching  the  window — the 
window  where  he  waited  for  the  coming  of  Death, 
who  is  too  big  for  one  to  see.  And  one  day,  even, 
when  he  noticed  Jean- Jean's  doll  in  the  depths  of  a 
chair,  he  averted  his  eyes,  and  turned  gingerly  away. 

People  heard  of  the  precautions  he  was  taking,  but 
all  the  more  they  avoided  passing  near  him  with  chil- 
dren. 

And  he  must  have  wanted  to  see  them,  all  the  same, 
so  that  he  would  be  better  able  to  retain  his  recollec- 
tions of  the  one  who  had  disappeared.  For  those  rec- 
ollections, too,  were  disappearing.  They  were  wear- 
ing themselves  out  in  the  old  and  laborious,  but  un- 
skilful, memory. 

One  fine  morning  he  got  the  idea  that  he  would  go 
a  very  long  way  off.  He  put  some  money  in  the  mid- 


174  WE  OTHERS 

die  of  a  bundle  of  clothes  and  departed  from  the  vil- 
lage, for  he  had  the  supreme  ill-luck,  at  his  age,  to 
be  entirely  free  to  do  what  he  liked. 

The  old  man,  who  could  no  longer  lose  himself, 
went  along  roads  and  into  villages,  not  allowing  him- 
self to  see  children,  trying  to  retain  in  completeness 
a  divinely  darling  picture. 

One  evening,  at  the  corner  of  a  road  which  ran 
beside  a  river,  he  saw  something  funnily  shaped — a 
light  van,  quilted  with  leafy  branches,  and  a  horse 
with  enormous  shoes. 

Farther  away,  around  the  van,  a  little  thing  was 
jumping  about.  It  was  a  child,  of  the  age  that  Jean- 
Jean  would  have  been  by  then. 

So  the  old  man  began  to  turn  on  his  heels  and  go 
away,  fearing  the  effect  of  his  eye.  So  he  did  not  see 
that  the  child  was  made — exactly  in  the  same  way  as 
Jean- Jean — of  a  drop  of  sunshine  on  top  of  a  shred 
of  shadow;  nor  did  he  see  that  the  child  looked  un- 
happy, nor  that  a  big  package  was  weighing  him  down. 

Yet  the  bantling,  as  he  trailed  and  whined  under  his 
big  burden,  was  hurrying  exactly  in  the  old  man's 
direction.  He  therefore  hastened  his  steps  to  avoid 
him.  But  after  a  few  moments  of  this  lamentably 
comical  chase,  the  old  man,  who  no  longer  knew  at  all 
how  to  walk  quickly,  stood  aside  on  the  edge  of  the 
road,  like  a  poor  beggar,  to  let  the  child  go  by. 

All  the  while  the  latter  was  coming  near  and  then 
going  away,  the  grandfather  leaned  forward  with 
open  ear  and  gaping  heart,  that  he  might  gather  as 
much  as  he  could  of  that  dear  childish  passing  which 


THE  EVIL  EYE  175 

would  help  him  to  remember  his  own  little  one,  but  he 
virtuously  kept  his  hand  pressed  upon  his  face,  and 
his  eyelids  closed  with  all  his  might  upon  his  evil 
glances. 


THE  STONE  MAN 

scarlet  sun  that  was  rising  from  the  lake 
dulled  itself  on  that  house-front  whose  stones 
were  as  dark  as  the  slates  of  the  roof,  and  on  the 
rigid  person  who  stood  in  the  frame  of  the  doorway, 
whose  eyes  were  hollow  and  his  mouth  shut — as  stiffly 
closed  as  a  scar. 

The  old  man  was  concealing  behind  him,  in  the 
house,  a  fair-haired  child  whom  he  frightened  every 
time  he  spoke  to  him  in  his  frozen  voice.  Pastor  Peter 
Mosen  loved  Tobie,  all  the  same,  this  son  of  his  son, 
but  the  man  was  strangely  different  from  other  people, 
thanks  to  his  severe  infallibility.  Never,  on  either 
great  or  minor  occasions,  had  Peter  Mosen  yielded  to 
the  temptations  of  evil,  nor  to  those  of  pity.  He  had 
lived  without  sin,  in  accordance  with  the  letter  of 
Holy  Writ. 

He  had  gradually  broken  away  from  all  his  rela- 
tions, for  he  had  never  forgiven  a  fault,  no  matter 
how  light.  He  had  driven  his  little  Gasparine  from 
his  house,  guilty  of  loving  a  man  whom  he  had  not 
appointed,  and  he  had  cursed  her,  naturally. 

Nothing  could  make  him  reconsider  that  decision 
and  give  way  to  forgiveness;  neither  the  death  of  the 
man  who  by  the  contagion  of  the  bad  marriage  had 
given  his  name  to  the  sinner,  nor  the  childish  en- 

176 


THE  STONE  MAN  177 

treaties  stammered  by  his  own  father,  the  very  old 
Mosen,  during  the  death-struggle. 

One  evening,  several  years  later,  a  little  girl  who 
had  dropped,  at  the  turn  in  the  road,  the  hand  of  a 
woman  in  mourning,  appeared  before  him  and 
stretched  out  her  arms :  "Mamma !"  the  little  girl  had 
implored. 

He  had  said  to  her  coldly,  as  to  some  one  big,  "Be- 
gone !" 

The  little  girl,  whose  fair  hair  the  lave  of  the  light 
was  turning  into  an  aureole  and  putting  stars  into  her 
tearful  eyes,  had  sobbed  out,  "You  are  a  bad  man — 
you  will  be  punished." 

He  had  turned  into  the  house,  and  shut  and  bolted 
the  door.  True  believers  know  that  sin  pollutes  not 
only  the  sinner,  but  the  sinner's  children,  and  those 
who  touch  them.  The  punishment  promised  by  the 
Lord  for  whomsoever  violates  the  law  lies  patiently 
in  wait  to  snatch  away  His  eternal  salvation  on  the 
slightest  failing;  and  one  must  take  all  precautions 
against  God's  dreadful  logic. 

The  old  man  was  no  longer  capable  of  relenting. 
His  dread  of  disobedience  had  made  of  him  an  actual 
and  immovable  statue  of  Duty.  He  was  ready  for  the 
Last  Judgment,  as  though  already  dead. 

Now,  he  was  living  in  company  with  his  grandson, 
whose  parents  the  Almighty  had  called  away.  He 
loved  him  as  dearly  as  Isaac  did  Jacob,  but  his  affec- 
tion had  the  demeanour  of  a  secret.  He  only  spoke  to 
the  child  in  a  voice  lowered  and  composed,  and  it  was 
only  when  he  was  quite  alone  that  he  felt  himself 
smiling  at  him. 


178  WE  OTHERS 

Tobie  increased  in  strength  and  comeliness.  He 
filled  the  gloomy  house  with  laughter. 

He  was  seventeen  years  old,  and  Peter,  almost 
come  to  the  end  of  his  earthly  endeavour,  was  bear- 
ing three-quarters  of  a  century,  when  one  midnight 
the  old  man  had  a  dream. 

In  that  dream,  a  voice  told  him  to  go  to  Tobie' s 
room.  He  got  up  and  went,  feeling  his  way.  Tobie 
was  not  in  his  room.  His  grandfather  called  him,  and 
there  was  no  answer.  The  old  man  leaned  against 
the  wall,  seized  by  mysterious  pangs.  Through  the 
window-panes  his  wandering  eyes  saw  pale  moonlight 
in  the  sky ;  and  his  ears  were  humming.  The  dream's 
supernatural  voice  bade  him  look  in  the  garden. 

He  opened  the  door  and  saw  the  lawn,  wrapped  in 
a  winding-sheet  by  the  moon.  He  waited.  The  gar- 
den gate  creaked.  A  creeping  shadow  appeared.  It 
was  Tobie  returning,  and  carrying  a  load. 

The  young  man  stumbled  upon  the  old  one,  and 
uttered  a  loud  cry.  What  he  was  carrying  fell  on  the 
table  with  a  sound  of  scattered  money. 

Suddenly  broken  and  subdued,  Tobie  sank  to  the 
ground,  confessing  in  a  voice  of  terror  .that  he  had 
been  thieving. 

His  teeth  chattered  as  he  kept  on  saying,  like  a 
lunatic,  that  he  had  robbed  the  people  at  the  Grey 
Farm. 

The  pastor  shuddered,  for  there  are  cataclysms 
which  make  rocks  and  the  solid  earth  tremble.  Hoarse 
cries  came  from  his  throat — "Devil !  Accursed !  Ac- 
cursed!" 


THE  STONE  MAN  179 

Then  louder  he  bellowed,  in  a  convulsion  of  hatred 
and  horror,  "And  I,  too,  am  accursed — I — I!" 

His  head  turned  towards  the  door.  The  only  pos- 
sible rescue  shone  in  the  saint's  eyes,  in  the  disordered 
shadows — to  go  and  denounce  the  criminal  and  pro- 
claim his  crime  to  get  rid  of  him,  to  snatch  himself 
from  him,  to  drive  him  with  all  his  crime  far  away. 
Yes,  thus  perhaps  the  stain  that  was  spreading  over 
his  house  and  race  would  be  wiped  out. 

The  old  man  moved  to  the  door.  But,  lo,  as  he 
reached  the  threshold,  he  raised  his  arms  to  heaven, 
stood  high  and  straight  like  a  poplar,  and  then  fell 
forward  with  his  face  in  the  soil  of  the  garden! 

Tobie,  glued  to  the  tableful  of  gold,  looked  at  the 
long  thunderstruck  body,  and  did  nothing. 

At  last  a  pallid  illumination  arose  from  the  horizon 
— the  dawn !  The  dawn,  with  its  touching  promise  of 
golden  day  and  all  the  riches  of  the  sun ! 

Then  Tobie  stood  up,  collected  the  golden  pieces, 
went  and  hid  them  in  the  depths  of  the  house;  and 
with  a  rosy  light  shining  on  him  he  rushed  along  the 
road,  shouting  that  his  grandfather  was  dead. 

He  came  back  with  a  doctor  and  several  gabbling 
women.  They  lifted  the  body  up  and  wiped  its  face. 
Peter  Mosen's  eyes  were  clear,  and  wide  open. 

After  examining  him  the  doctor  said :  "He  is  not 
dead.  He  has  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  He  feels,  he 
sees,  and  he  understands,  but  he  cannot  move  his 
limbs,  or  his  tongue,  or  his  eyelids." 

So  the  grandson  kept  the  shamefully  gotten  bag  of 
gold.  He  was  not  suspected.  He  became  the  master 


i8o  WE  OTHERS 

of  the  house  where  the  paralytic  was  lying,  for  ever 
doubled  up  in  his  armchair. 

Soon  he  brought  a  woman  to  the  house,  a  woman 
whose  hair  was  counterfeit  gold,  her  face  bepowdered, 
her  lips  painted. 

He  showed  her  his  grandfather,  petrified  in  his  cor- 
ner, with  his  open,  far-seeing  eyes,  and  his  unfathom- 
able thoughts.  The  woman  started  with  aversion,  and 
blasphemed.  But  she  did  not  go  away,  and  lived  in 
the  house  from  that  moment. 

After  a  little  while  they  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  the 
old  man ;  they  got  used  to  the  vacuity  of  his  presence, 
and  continued,  before  his  eyes  and  without  restraint, 
the  execrable  life  which  bound  them  together.  They 
quarrelled  like  heathen,  were  abominably  reconciled, 
gloried  in  their  vices,  and  spent  the  stolen  money. 

One  day  Tobie  told  the  story  of  the  robbery,  and 
the  woman  with  the  befloured  face  laughed.  Another 
day,  as  he  came  into  the  room  without  a  thought  for 
the  banished  and  silent  grandparent,  he  told  her  that 
an  innocent  man  had  been  sentenced  in  his  stead.  The 
woman  yelped  with  glee  and  relief,  which  increased 
still  more  the  evening  when  Tobie  came  to  say  that 
the  victims,  ruined  and  turned  out,  had  gone  to  beg 
their  way  through  France. 

Mute  as  an  open  Bible,  Peter  Mosen  witnessed  the 
scandals  established  in  his  house — scenes  from  which 
all  decent  passers-by  turned  away  in  astonishment,  as 
he  heard  and  saw.  He  endured  continuous  contact 
with  the  wretches,  and  even  their  attentions,  and  thus 
the  inevitable  curse  was  conveyed  to  him,  more  and 
more  and  every  minute.  Helpless  accomplice,  he 


THE  STONE  MAN  181 

shared  the  stolen  money  with  them.  Like  them  and 
with  them,  he  was  falling  unchecked  straight  into  per- 
dition and  the  menace  of  eternity.  Though  he  could 
not  budge,  he  was  descending  into  hell.  In  the  depth 
of  that  corner  wherein  he  was  crucified,  he  wholly  re- 
sembled his  heart  of  those  bygone  days,  when  so  often 
he  breathed  forth  the  sepulchral  word :  "Never !"  He 
resembled  a  statue,  superhumanly  established,  of  Duty 
or  of  Shame. 


THE  ELEVENTH 

Master,  who  had  a  pale  head  with  long 
marble-like  hair,  and  whose  spectacles  shone  in 
solemnity,  came  to  a  standstill  on  his  morning  round 
opposite  my  little  table  at  the  door  of  Room  28,  and 
condescended  to  announce  to  me  that  I  was  hence- 
forth appointed  to  let  in  the  ten  poor  people  who  every 
month  were  admitted  to  the  hospitality  of  the  House. 
Then  he  went  on,  so  tall  and  so  white  among  the 
assiduous  flock  of  students  that  they  seemed  to  be 
carrying  a  famous  statuette  from  room  to  room. 

I  stammered  the  thanks  which  he  did  not  hear. 
My  25-year-old  heart  felt  a  happy  pride  in  reflecting 
that  I  had  been  chosen  to  preside  in  one  of  the  noblest 
traditions  of  the  House  in  which,  a  humble  assistant, 
I  was  wandering  lornly  among  wealthy  invalids. 

On  the  first  day  of  every  month  the  luxurious 
palace-hospital  became  the  paradise  of  ten  vagabonds. 
One  of  its  outer  doors  was  opened  to  admit  the  first 
ten  who  came,  whoever  they  were,  wherever  they  had 
fallen  from  or  escaped.  And  for  a  whole  month  those 
ten  human  derelicts  enjoyed  the  entire  hospitality  of 
the  comfortable  institution,  just  as  much  so  as  the 
Master's  most  valuable  patients,  as  much  as  the  arch- 
dukes and  multi-millionaires.  For  them,  too,  were 
the  lofty  halls  whose  walls  were  not  only  white,  but 
glistening,  the  huge  corridors  like  covered  streets, 

1 82 


THE  ELEVENTH  183 

which  in  summer  or  in  winter  had  the  coolness  or  the 
mildness  of  spring.  For  them  also,  the  immense  gar- 
den beds  set  among  green  velvet,  like  bunches  of  flow- 
ers so  enlarged  by  magic  that  one  walked  among  them. 
For  them  equally,  the  outer  walls,  far  off  but  impass- 
able, which  shield  one  against  wide-open  Space,  against 
rambling  roads,  against  the  plains  which  come  to  an 
end  no  more  than  the  sky.  For  thirty  days  the  refu- 
gees busied  themselves  only  with  doing  nothing,  only 
worked  when  they  ate,  and  were  no  longer  afraid  of 
the  unknown  or  of  the  coming  day.  They  who  were 
remorseful  learned  to  forget  things,  and  they  who 
were  bereaved,  to  forget  people. 

When  by  chance  they  met  each  other,  they  simply 
had  to  turn  their  heads  away  hurriedly.  There  was 
not  in  all  the  House,  by  order  of  the  Master,  a  mirror 
in  which  they  would  have  found  their  bad  dream  again. 
At  the  day's  end  came  the  dormitory,  peaceful  as  a 
cemetery,  a  nice  cemetery,  where  one  is  not  dead, 
where  one  waits — where  one  lives,  but  without  know- 
ing it. 

At  eight  o'clock  on  the  first  day  of  the  following 
month  all  ten  of  them  went  away,  cast  back  into  the 
world  one  by  one,  as  into  the  sea.  Immediately  after, 
ten  others  entered,  the  first  ten  of  the  file  which,  since 
the  night  before,  had  been  washed  up  against  the  wall 
of  the  house  as  upon  the  shores  of  an  island.  The 
first  ten,  no  more,  no  less,  no  favours,  no  exceptions, 
no  injustices;  one  rule  only — they  who  had  already 
been  were  never  again  admitted.  The  arrivals  were 
asked  nothing  else — not  even  for  the  confession  of 
their  names. 


184  WE  OTHERS 

And  on  the  first  day  of  the  month,  as  soon  as  nine 
o'clock  had  sounded,  exactly  together  from  the  An- 
glican church  and  the  Catholic  chapel  of  the  House, 
I  opened  the  little  Poor-door. 

A  crowd  of  beings  was  massed  against  the  door- 
wing  and  the  wall.  Hardly  had  the  former  turned  in 
the  shadow  when  the  tattered  heap  rushed  forward 
as  though  sucked  in. 

My  helper  had  to  throw  himself  forward  to  en- 
force a  little  order  upon  the  greedy  invasion.  We  had 
to  detach  by  force,  to  tear  away  from  the  mass  each 
one  of  the  besiegers,  who  were  pressed  side  by  side 
and  elbow  to  elbow,  fastened  to  each  other  like  fan- 
tastic friends.  The  eight  entered,  the  ninth,  the  tenth. 

And  then  the  door  was  quickly  closed,  but  not  so 
quickly  that  it  prevented  me  from  seeing,  only  a  step 
from  me,  him  upon  whom  it  closed,  the  eleventh,  the 
unlucky  one,  the  accursed. 

He  was  a  man  of  uncertain  age;  in  his  grey  and 
withered  face  lack-lustre  eyes  floated.  He  looked  at 
me  so  despairingly  that  he  seemed  to  smile.  The 
touch  of  that  extraordinary  disappointment  made  me 
start,  of  that  face  that  was  mute  as  a  wound.  I 
glimpsed  in  a  flash — the  time  that  the  door  took  to 
shut — all  the  effort  he  had  made  to  get  there,  even 
if  too  late,  and  how  much  he  too  deserved  to  come  in ! 

Then  I  busied  myself  with  the  others;  but  a  few 
minutes  later,  still  affected  by  the  distress  I  had  read 
on  the  face  of  the  outcast,  I  half  opened  the  door  to 
see  if  he  were  still  there.  No  one.  He  and  the  three 
or  four  others — uncertain  rags  that  had  fluttered  be- 
hind him — had  gone  to  the  four  winds  of  heaven, 


THE  ELEVENTH  185 

carried  away  along  the  roads  like  dead  leaves.  A  lit- 
tle shiver  went  through  me,  a  shiver  almost  of  mourn- 
ing for  the  conquered. 

At  night,  as  I  was  falling  asleep,  my  thoughts  went 
again  to  them,  and  I  wondered  why  they  stayed  there 
till  the  last  moment,  they  who  arrived  only  when  ten 
had  already  taken  their  places  at  the  door.  What 
did  they  hope  for?  Nothing.  Yet  they  were  hoping 
all  the  same,  and  therein  was  a  mean  miracle  of  the 
heart 

We  had  reached  the  month  of  March.  On  the  last 
day  of  the  old  month,  towards  nightfall,  a  rather 
frightened  murmur  crept  from  the  side  of  the  high 
road,  close  to  the  door.  Leaning  over  a  balcony,  I 
could  make  men  out  there,  stirring  like  insects.  These 
were  the  suppliants. 

The  next  morning  we  opened  to  these  phantoms 
whom  the  magical  story  of  the  house  had  called  across 
the  world,  who  had  awakened  and  unburied  them- 
selves from  the  lowest  and  most  awful  of  depths  to 
get  there.  We  welcomed  the  ten  who  first  came  for- 
ward; we  were  obliged  to  drive  back  into  life  the 
eleventh. 

He  was  standing,  motionless,  and  offering  himself 
from  the  other  side  of  the  door.  I  looked  at  him,  and 
then  lowered  my  eyes.  He  had  a  terrible  look,  with 
his  hollow  face  and  lashless  eyelids.  There  breathed 
from  him  a  reproach  of  unbearable  artlessness. 

When  the  door  divided  us  for  ever,  I  regretted  him, 
and  should  have  liked  to  see  him  again.  I  turned  to- 
wards the  others,  swarming  in  gladness  on  the  flag- 
stones, almost  with  resignation,  wondering  at  my  own 


186  WE  OTHERS 

firm  conviction  that  the  other,  sooner  than  these,  ought 
to  have  come  in  with  us. 

And  it  was  so  every  time.  Every  time  I  became 
more  indifferent  to  the  crowd  of  admitted  and  satis- 
fied, and  devoted  my  gaze  still  more  to  him  who  was 
refused  salvation.  And  every  time  he  seemed  to  me 
the  most  pitiable  case,  and  I  felt  that  I  was  myself 
smitten  in  the  person  of  the  one  condemned. 

In  June,  it  was  a  woman.  I  saw  her  understand 
and  begin  to  cry.  I  trembled  as  I  furtively  scanned 
her;  to  crown  all,  the  weeper's  eyelids  were  blood-red 
as  wounds. 

In  July,  the  appointed  victim  was  incomparably  re- 
grettable by  reason  of  his  great  age;  and  no  living 
being  was  so  compassionable  as  he  who  was  repulsed 
the  month  after,  so  young  was  he.  Another  time,  he 
who  had  to  be  snatched  from  the  group  of  the  elect 
besought  me  with  his  poor  hands,  encircled  with  the 
remains  of  frayed  linen,  like  lint.  The  one  whom 
Fate  sacrificed  the  following  month  showed  me  a 
menacing  fist.  The  entreaty  of  the  one  made  me 
afraid,  and  the  threat  of  the  other  pitiful. 

I  could  almost  have  begged  his  pardon,  the 
"eleventh"  of  October.  He  drew  himself  up  stiffly; 
his  neck  was  wrapped  high  in  a  greyish  tie  that  looked 
like  a  bandage;  he  was  thin,  and  his  coat  fluttered  in 
the  wind  like  a  flag.  But  what  could  I  have  said  to 
the  unfortunate  who  succeeded  him  thirty  days  later? 
He  blushed,  stammered  a  nervous  apology,  and  with- 
drew after  bowing  with  tragic  politeness — piteous 
remnant  of  an  earlier  lot. 

And  thus  a  year  passed.     Twelve  times  I  let  in  the 


THE  ELEVENTH  187 

vagrants  whom  the  stones  had  worn  out,  the  workmen 
for  whom  all  work  was  hopeless,  the  criminals  sub- 
dued. Twelve  times  I  let  in  some  of  those  who  clung 
to  the  stones  of  the  wall  as  on  to  reefs  of  the  sea  coast. 
Twelve  times  I  turned  others  away,  similar  ones, 
whom  I  confusedly  preferred. 

An  idea  beset  me — that  I  was  taking  part  in  an 
abominable  injustice.  Truly  there  was  no  sense  in 
dividing  all  those  poor  folk  like  that  into  friends  and 
enemies.  There  was  only  one  arbitrary  reason — ab- 
stract, not  admissible;  a  matter  of  a  figure,  a  sign. 
At  bottom,  this  was  neither  just  nor  even  logical. 

Soon  I  could  no  longer  continue  in  this  series  of 
errors.  I  went  to  the  Master,  and  begged  him  to  give 
me  some  other  post,  so  that  I  should  not  have  to  do 
the  same  evil  deed  again  every  month. 


THE  BAD  CUSTODIAN 

UMBER  One  was  fat ;  Number  Two  was  thin ; 
Three  was  tall,  and  Number  Four  quite  small. 

These  four  numbers  of  the  West  Yard,  who  dif- 
fered in  appearance  as  much  as  four  punctuation 
marks,  had  this  in  common — they  had  all  been  con- 
victed for  robbery  at  the  county  town  court  about  Mid- 
summer Day  last.  But  their  resemblance  ended  with 
the  period  of  their  conviction.  Their  respective 
crimes  had  been — were — as  different  as  themselves, 
for  the  men  had  plundered,  the  one  a  rich  foreigner, 
and  the  other  a  crowd  of  poor  unimportant  people; 
while  the  two  women  had  committed  the  abominable 
deed,  the  one  for  love  and  the  other  in  hatred.  Never- 
theless, the  four  did  not  know  each  other.  Though 
so  close,  they  were  separated  by  the  obdurate  dark- 
ness of  the  partition  walls,  and  neighboured  each  other 
no  more  than  they  who  are  side  by  side  in  the  grave- 
yards. 

One  being  only  saw  them  all,  the  gaoler,  and  a  slen- 
der and  colourless  officer  with  grey  hair  and  face,  with 
a  neck  so  thin  and  dry  in  the  middle  of  his  high  cloth 
collar  that  it  was  like  the  stem  of  a  potted  plant,  with 
dried-in  eyes  under  a  forehead  as  knobbly  as  a  shingle 
beach.  He  was  an  old  sailor;  but  in  truth  he  was  no 
longer  anything,  his  mind  not  having  sufficient  ex- 
panse to  be  able  to  concern  itself  at  the  same  time  with 

188 


THE  BAD  CUSTODIAN  189 

both  the  present  and  the  past.  His  lips  were  always 
firmly  joined  together,  and  his  features  as  rigid  as 
those  one  sees  chalked  on  doors. 

Yet  he  stood  or  moved  about  like  a  survivor  among 
the  four  intermittent  and  ludicrous  travellers  of  the 
round  yard ;  and  such  as  he  was,  he  was  all  they  had 
in  the  world. 

But  he  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  the  four  suc- 
cessive derelicts.  Not  only  did  he  not  speak  to  them, 
but  he  thought  of  nothing  at  all  as  he  watched  them 
appear  and  then  go  round  the  yard  for  the  appointed 
time,  like  hands  round  a  clock-face. 

Was  it  weakness  of  mind  on  his  part?  Yes;  but 
it  was  above  all  because  he  believed  that  criminals  are 
of  a  monstrous  race,  infinitely  different  from  that  of 
the  rest,  infinitely  distant  from  them.  The  belief 
which  centuries  had  heaped  up  in  him  was  no  more 
than  a  huge  reproach,  tranquil  and  silent,  against  those 
who  had  preferred  Satan  to  integrity,  those  whom  it 
was  his  business  to  keep  out  of  the  world.  He  knew 
that  there  was  an  indelible  stain  on  the  faces  and  hands 
of  these  mournful  strangers. .  These  criminals — 
worse  still,  these  convicted  people — who  every  morn- 
ing came  to  life  again  from  their  cells  for  a  quarter 
of  an  hour,  had  the  look  of  human  beings,  but  they 
were  chiefly  convicts.  His  eyes  followed  them  as  a 
matter  of  duty,  but  with  a  sort  of  blindness,  as  they 
made  their  daily  eddy,  slowly  and  sadly,  at  the  foot 
of  the  brick  walls. 

He  had  just  opened  a  cell  one  day.  A  grey  shape 
had  extracted  itself  and  begun  to  walk  in  a  circle, 


WE  OTHERS 

flimsily  and  hurriedly,  but  hesitating,  like  a  piece  of 
paper  in  the  wind. 

Suddenly  the  gaoler  felt  a  light  little  quiver  in  the 
back  of  his  neck,  and  a  tickling  beginning  in  his  eyes. 
Things  looked  as  if  they  were  rocking  and  capsizing. 

"What  the "  he  said. 

His  fingers  relaxed,  and  the  bunch  of  Keys  fell 
down.  The  old  sailor  leaned  against  the  wall.  But 
there  is  no  sort  of  inactivity  to  shield  one  against  the 
vast  tempest  towards  which  one  moves  as  fast  as  one 
lives.  He  felt  himself  falling,  though  he  still  re- 
mained standing,  and  although  he  shouted  with  all  his 
strength,  only  a  feeble  groan  came. 

The  prisoner  walked  on,  nor  did  he  see  the  gaoler ; 
and  when  the  walking-time  was  up,  automatically  he 
went  in  and  fell  back  again  in  his  compartment. 
Nothing  remained  in  the  paved  courtyard  but  a  but- 
tressed shape  with  jerking  hands. 

They  came  at  last.  It  was  seen  that  something  un- 
usual was  happening.  The  Keys  were  picked  up,  and 
the  contents  of  the  cells  verified.  When  they  came  to 
the  custodian,  he  roused  himself,  emerged  at  last  from 
his  dismal  nightmare.  He  stammered  heavily,  quite 
wonder-struck.  He  let  himself  be  led  to  the  infirm- 
ary, dragging  his  feet. 

Several  days  later,  notwithstanding  a  general  low- 
ering of  his  faculties,  the  doctor  calculated  that  the 
humble  functionary  had  completely  recovered  from 
his  attack — till  the  next  came — and  he  resumed  his 
duties.  Nobody  could  remark  the  least  change  in  him. 

But  nobody  could  see  into  him.  He  did  not  manage 
to  wake  up  completely  from  the  great  and  extraordi- 


THE  BAD  CUSTODIAN  191 

nary  disorder,  to  extricate  himself  from  the  shipwreck 
into  which  he  had  reeled.  He  retained  the  stupor  of 
his  struggle  and  his  saving.  He  retained,  too,  certain 
delirious  visions,  fixed  in  his  eyes. 

He  had  seen  himself  quite  little  again,  as  he  was 
before  he  became  ship's  boy,  before  everything.  Yes, 
by  the  chance  of  his  brief  vertigo  and  the  commotion 
in  his  poor  brain,  he  had  glimpsed  faces  bent  over  him, 
a  supernatural  distance  away. 

He  had  seen  one  evening — many  evenings — on  the 
threshold  of  a  door,  a  shade  whose  outstretched  arms 
sought  for  him;  and  in  a  Kitchen,  a  dress,  by  which 
one  was  more  peaceful  than  anywhere  else.  His 
father,  his  mother.  They  had  come  back  a  little  to 
his  side.  And  he  had  even  seen  again,  in  one  dazzling 
moment,  a  feminine  form  almost  as  big  as  he  was 
now,  a  form  that  was  not  his  mother,  that  might  have 
been  his  sister  had  she  not  been  some  one  more  divine 
and  more  incomprehensible. 

Certainly  he  was  beginning  again  to  forget  these 
details,  so  strangely  re-born  in  a  flash  of  madness; 
but  there  remained  still  some  astonishment  and  hesi- 
tation. He  was  disturbed  by  the  confused  impression 
of  all  that  he  must  have  been. 

When  he  began  again  to  make  the  prisoners  go 
round,  one  by  one,  he  set  about  looking  at  them  for 
the  first  time,  those  submerged  uncertain  shapes  of 
the  yard.  The  springtime  sun  was  venturing  on  to 
the  crest  of  the  wall.  Whether  by  reason  of  that  glow 
or  for  some  other  miracle — behold,  he  saw  them !  He 
could  not  prevent  himself  from  reflecting,  at  first  tim- 
idly, that  those  had  been  men,  and  these,  women. 


192  WE  OTHERS 

And  gradually  the  idea  came  to  him  that  they  had 
remained,  after  all,  men  and  women. 

Some  things  that  he  had  never  noticed,  some  de- 
tails formerly  invisible,  absorbed  his  thoughts.  These 
creatures  began  to  assume  shapes,  in  the  eyes  of  that 
petrified  face  which  a  mysterious  organic  disorder  had 
awakened  and  animated.  And  so  they  were  still  more 
unlike  each  other  to  him,  still  more  lonely  and  aban- 
doned. 

He  wanted  to  know  their  names.  At  the  office  they 
wrote  them  down  for  him  on  a  scrap  of  paper.  The 
big  one  was  called  Mesmer;  the  thin  one,  Bazire;  the 
two  women  were  Madame  Popelin  and  Mile.  Cordi- 
bois.  Enriched  with  this  information,  he  asked  a 
clerk  what  they  had  done,  learned  it  off,  and  said  it 
over  to  himself.  As  he  saw  each  one  of  them,  after- 
wards, he  wondered  at  their  crime ;  and  then  the  more 
he  saw  of  them,  the  less  he  wondered.  Everything 
happens  in  the  great  earthly  melodrama.  He  had 
really  been  little,  himself,  and  had  crawled  between 
parents  on  whom  Fate  had  long  since  been  avenged! 

As  the  taller  of  the  two  women  was  completing  her 
last  round,  he  planted  himself  in  front  of  her.  She 
stopped  and  straightened  up,  for  she  was  walking  bent 
forward  towards  the  middle  of  the  smaller  yard,  on 
account  of  her  height.  He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak 
to  her.  Was  she  afraid  he  was  going  to  bite  her? 
She  was  seized  with  trembling,  and  stared  at  him  in 
terror,  with  her  neck  awry  and  her  eyes  askew.  As 
he  did  nothing,  the  long,  weedy,  and  emaciated  face 
began  to  twitch;  and  she  smiled.  He  also  smiled. 
At  that  moment  some  church  clocks  chimed  faintly. 


THE  BAD  CUSTODIAN  193 

He  saw  her  flicker,  and  make  a  grimace.  She  sniffed, 
stifling  a  sob.  Then  she  looked  at  him  with  tears  in 
her  eyes.  He  felt  that  there  were  in  his  also,  and  that 
they  had  actually  given  look  for  look. 

The  other  woman  was  tiny  as  a  toy.  He  looked 
at  her  and  so  attentively  that,  just  as  she  was  coming 
in,  she  turned  towards  him.  Standing  out  against  the 
shadows  of  the  cell,  he  saw  her  pallid  face  and  its  red 
cheek-bones  and  eyelids,  a  face  all  scarred  and  sore. 
She  guessed  the  weightiness  of  the  silent  moment  that 
followed,  for  instead  of  saying  any  casual  thing  to 
him,  she  simply  said,  in  a  very  low  voice,  "I've  no 
grudge  against  you." 

"Ah!"  he  said. 

She  tossed  her  head,  then  lowered  it,  smiled  and 
blushed,  and  added  at  last,  "I'm  sorry " 

"So  am  I,"  he  murmured  grandly. 

There  was  never  more  between  them  than  those  few 
great  words.  For  that  very  day  he  corrected  him- 
self with  a  violent  shock.  He  passed  a  terrible  night 
of  fright  at  the  thought  of  what  he  had  done. 

So  he  was  forgetting  his  duty,  prowling  round  the 
accursed  so  as  to  draw  nearer  them !  He  was  becom- 
ing a  wretch  to  whom  the  difference  between  good  and 
evil  was  fading  away,  a  madman  who  looked  for  in- 
nocence and  even  for  resemblance  into  the  most  in- 
famous of  people! 

Accusingly  he  struck  his  forehead  and  contracted 
his  dry  hand  upon  his  heart — the  heart  which  was 
coming  back  to  life  so  beautifully.'  Stretched  on  his 
pallet,  he  saw  himself  as  an  evil-doer,  henceforth  in- 
capable of  understanding  anything. 


194  WE  OTHERS 

"I  can't — I  can't  rely  on  myself  any  more." 
But  even  while  he  groaned,  he  could  not  help  open- 
ing his  eyes  wide,  as  if  in  a  supreme  appeal,  in  the 
night  that  was  full  of  secret  and  infinite  things,  the 
night  that  was  contrary  to  law. 


THE  CROSS  OF  HONOUR 

I T  was  with  a  fine  surprise  stroke  that  we  got  into  the 
•••  village  of  Karakou — or  some  such  name.  There 
were  only  women,  children,  and  old  men  in  it.  All 
the  fighting  men  of  the  Lolobes — it  was  something 
like  that  that  these  marmosets  called  themselves,  but 
I  don't  vouch  for  it — had  by  chance  gone  away  hunt- 
ing that  evening. 

We  crept  close  up  to  the  central  space  without  giv- 
ing the  alarm,  thanks  to  the  heavy  twilight  and  to  the 
fact  that  one  of  our  men  prudently  felled  a  buffoon 
whose  wrinkled  face  was  like  an  old  polished  shoe,  and 
who,  squatting  near  the  enclosure,  believed  he  was 
guarding  the  village. 

Hidden  behind  huts,  we  loaded  and  propped  up  our 
rifles,  so  as  to  shoot  down  all  those  unsuspecting  shad- 
ows, some  sitting  on  stones  or  on  the  ground,  others 
going  and  coming. 

Opposite  me,  on  a  seat  against  a  wall,  two  blacka- 
moors were  sitting,  motionless  and  silent,  and  quite 
close  to  each  other;  and  even  while  I  took  aim  at  the 
one  on  the  right,  I  wondered  what  they  might  be  say- 
ing to  each  other. 

The  signal !  From  everywhere  at  once,  the  thunder 
of  our  rifles  burst  forth.  It  was  not  a  long  job.  All 
those  inky  silhouettes  were  sent  to  Kingdom-come  in- 

195 


196  WE  OTHERS 

side  two  minutes.  They  seemed  to  plunge  into  the 
ground,  or  fly  away,  or  scatter  like  smoke. 

Certainly,  we  then  despatched  rather  roughly,  I  ad- 
mit, the  few  survivors  who  had  escaped  our  salvo  and 
had  gone  to  earth  in  their  huts  like  field-mice.  This 
violence,  so  natural  and  humane  in  time  of  war,  was 
condoned  by  the  joy  of  victory,  and  because  we  were 
drunk,  having  discovered  in  the  principal  hut  a  barrel 
of  rum,  sold  to  the  Lolobes  in  question  by  some  miser- 
able English  agent.  As  for  exonerating  myself,  I 
must  say  that  I  have  only  retained  an  extremely  con- 
fused recollection  of  what  then  came  to  pass.  Yes — 
there  is  one  detail  concerning  the  two  savages  who 
were  facing  me  while  I  was  fixing  my  rifle  and  select- 
ing one  of  them.  I  saw  them  again ;  indeed,  I  almost 
fell  on  them.  They  were  hardly  more  than  a  single 
corpse  at  the  foot  of  the  seat  on  which,  a  moment  be- 
fore, they  had  been  so  funnily  quiet  together.  They 
were  a  negro  and  a  negress,  rigidly  clasping  each 
other,  like  two  hands.  Two  lovers!  The  matter 
stuck  in  my  brain  in  spite  of  myself,  so  much  so  that 
I  could  not  help  joking  about  it  several  times  during 
that  historic  evening. 

Then  my  memory  capsizes — the  orgy,  our  shouts 
and  dances,  our  grimaces  and  antics;  and  suddenly  a 
sharp  pain  in  my  skull — I  am  falling — and  remember 
no  more. 

I  did  not  come  to  my  senses  until  six  weeks  later  in 
the  hospital  at  St.  Louis.  I  opened  my  eyes  one  morn- 
ing upon  white  surroundings,  and  a  smell  of  iodoform. 

Then  they  told  me,  in  little  doses,  what  had  hap- 
pened. Our  column  had  recklessly  lingered  in  the 


THE  CROSS  OF  HONOUR  197 

conquered  village,  and  slept  on  the  spot.  So  the  Lo- 
lobe  warriors,  returning,  had  massacred  the  lot  of  us, 
all,  to  the  last  man. 

"And  what  about  me?"  I  said. 

They  explained  that  a  chance  had  saved  me — the 
collapse  of  a  hut  that  had  stunned  but  hidden  me. 
The  next  day  the  main  force  had  retaken  and  razed 
the  village,  had  killed  all  the  Lolobes  at  last,  and  had 
dragged  me  feet  first  out  of  the  protecting  debris. 

But  there  was  better  still.  The  Governor  had  been 
to  my  bedside  to  announce  to  me  himself  that  I  had 
been  appointed  a  Knight  of  the  Legion  of  Honour. 

All  my  comrades  killed  and  myself  decorated!  I 
fell  asleep  that  day  in  emotion  unutterable  and  beati- 
tude unmingled. 

I  was  not  long  in  getting  well — I  was  in  such  a 
hurry  to  go  home  with  the  cross  I  had  won!  I 
dreamed  dreams  in  which  I  saw  the  airs  they  would 
all  give  themselves — father,  mother,  and  neighbours. 
My  quondam  friends,  still  only  paltry  devils,  would 
not  dare  to  speak  to  me;  and  the  foremen  at  the  fac- 
tory would  cotton  to  me.  Who  knew,  even,  if  the 
wealthy  Mile.  Mounier,  in  spite  of  her  old  age,  would 
not  consent  to  marry  me ! 

The  day  so  long  awaited  arrived.  It  was  a  morn- 
ing in  July  when  I  alighted  at  Villeneuve,  with  one 
trailing  leg  and  my  head  held  high,  with  my  old  great- 
coat and  my  new  cross. 

What  a  reception,  gentlemen !  The  station  was  full 
of  music.  There  was  a  row  of  girls,  the  little  ones  in 
their  first-communion  attire,  and  the  big  ones  like 
brides,  with  flags  and  bunches  of  flowers.  A  man,  en- 


198  WE  OTHERS 

circled  by  a  little  frock-coat  and  red  as  a  turkey-cock, 
challenged  me  while  I  was  still  on  the  footboard,  and 
Monsieur  the  Count  de  Vilvert,  to  whom  the  castle 
belonged  and  who  was  in  sporting  costume,  smiled  at 
me.  People  jostled  and  pushed  each  other,  saying, 
"There  he  is!"  just  as  they  say  "Long  live  the  King!" 
And  in  the  crowd  my  parents  were  expanding,  un- 
recognisable in  their  Sunday  clothes. 

They  led  me  away  to  lunch  at  the  Town  Hall. 
There  were  speeches  before,  and  speeches  after,  and 
all  of  it  was  only  about  me.  They  called  me  "the 
glorious  survivor  of  Karakou"  and  the  "hero  of  Sene- 
gal." They  related  my  exploit  in  twenty  different 
ways,  with  a  certain  trick  of  mixing  into  it  at  the  same 
time  some  things  about  France  and  civilisation. 

Towards  evening,  when  the  luncheon  was  nearing 
its  end  and  people  were  calming  down,  a  reporter  came 
up  to  my  chair  and  asked  me  to  relate  to  him  myself, 
for  his  newspaper,  all  the  fine  things  I  had  done. 

"Ah,  well,"  I  said,  "there  was— I—I  have " 

But  I  could  find  nothing  to  add  to  this  preface,  and 
could  only  look  at  him  and  gape. 

My  arm,  which  was  gesticulating  in  space,  came  to 
a  standstill.  "I  can't  remember  any  more!"  I  was 
forced  to  confess. 

"Well  answered !"  yelped  the  chap,  "the  brave  fel- 
low is  not  even  pleased  to  recall  his  prowess!" 

I  smiled,  and  we  rose  from  the  table.  There  was 
yet  a  procession  to  the  end  of  the  village,  palavers,  and 
liqueur  of  honour,  presented  by  Papa  Barbat.  Then, 
after  huge  embracings,  we  scattered.  Finally,  I 
found  myself  alone  at  dusk,  near  the  factories. 


THE  CROSS  OF  HONOUR  199 

I  took  then  the  road  that  goes  round  the  church,  in 
order  to  go  home.  Although  night  was  falling,  my 
dazzled  eyes  blinked,  and  my  feet  were  terribly  heavy. 
My  mind  was  empty  and  wandering — and  yet  some- 
thing was  troubling  me. 

Yes,  the  newspaper-maker's  ridiculous  question  was 
forcing  itself  into  my  poor  skull  like  a  nail — "What 
fine  thing  have  you  done?"  Yes,  what,  after  all, 
what?  Evidently  I  had  done  extraordinary  things — 
the  cross  was  proof — but  what?  I  stopped  suddenly 
in  the  middle  of  the  darkened  road,  and  remained 
there ;  searching,  and  sighing  to  find  nothing. 

Had  they,  with  all  their  champagne  and  their  com- 
plicated arguments,  had  they  muddled  my  thoughts? 
However  it  was,  I  was  like  those  people  in  novels  who 
forget  a  piece  of  their  life.  I  had  clean  forgotten  my 
brilliant  action,  and  it  looked  to  me  as  if  it  were  no 
longer  anything  at  all. 

Uneasily,  I  resumed  my  walk  home. 

Then  it  was  I  perceived  in  the  twilight,  on  a  seat  by 
a  farmhouse,  two  beings  sitting  close  together.  They 
must  have  been  clasping  hands,  and  they  were  saying 
nothing;  but  they  seemed  to  apply  themselves  to  this 
mutual  silence  as  to  an  occupation  of  importance.  In 
the  obscurity  of  evening  I  could  see  nothing  of  them, 
except  that  they  had  human  shape,  and  that  they  were 
exchanging  something  better  than  words. 

"Ah !"  I  said,  stopping  once  more. 

And  immediately,  with  my  eyes  fixed  on  that  dark 
corner  of  the  village,  I  saw  another  village,  one  de- 
stroyed now,  wiped  out  with  all  its  inhabitants,  and 
above  all  with  the  two  black  creatures  who  had 


200  WE  OTHERS 

throbbed  together  before  me,  revealing  to  me  only 
their  human  shape,  and  their  interwoven  silence. 
And  that  black  couple  exactly  resembled,  through  the 
night's  simplification,  the  two  shadows  here. 

These  shadows,  those  negroes;  it  was  really  stupid 
to  see  an  analogy, — but  I  saw  it.  When  one  has 
drunk  too  much,  he  becomes  almost  innocent  and  sim- 
ple of  understanding.  And  I  must  indeed  have  been 
drunk,  for  instead  of  making  me  laugh,  the  comical 
comparison  made  me  cry.  My  hand  went  to  my 
cross;  I  took  it  away  from  my  breast  and  hid  it, 
quickly,  in  the  bottom  of  my  pocket,  like  something 
stolen. 


SAAR 

SAAR  was  the  finest  of  the  big  greyhounds  of  the 
North.  No  other  displayed  as  he  did  the  clean 
magnificent  lines  of  that  race  which  to-day  has  disap- 
peared, after  being  the  noblest  that  went  upon  the 
earth  save  only  the  royal  race  of  man.  Some  traces 
of  what  the  stirring  sight  of  him  may  have  been  re- 
mained for  a  long  time  among  the  coursers  of  East- 
ern Scythia  and  those  which  grow  ever  inordinately 
bigger  among  the  eternal  snow  that  covers  the  Isles  of 
Tin,  Caledonia,  and  fabled  Persia,  and  even  in  the 
species  of  curved  and  long-drawn  canine  which  the 
flaming  climate  of  Libya  has  contracted  and  stiffened 
into  arches. 

He  had  fierce  eyes,  which  were  jet-black  in  day- 
light, and  became  a  more  and  more  costly  sapphire  as 
night  was  falling.  He  would  run  in  circles  round  a 
galloping  horse.  Birds  only  escaped  him  by  rising 
straight  up  into  the  sky;  and  when  he  leaped,  his  ef- 
fort was  so  quiet  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  earth  itself 
was  rising  to  throw  the  wonderful  projectile  forward. 

He  knew  how  to  take  care  of  the  woolly  flocks  of 
the  seafaring  traders.  This  occupation  was  a  sort  of 
obscure  religion  to  him,  and  he  observed  it  without  a 
falter,  under  the  calm  eye  of  the  sovereign  shepherd 
who  gave  him  his  food.  Confined  in  the  farthest 

201 


202  WE  OTHERS 

pastures  of  the  peninsula,  he  dwelt  there  and  endured 
the  malignant  moisture  of  the  morning  and  the  snares 
of  the  night-time — he  who  might  have  overtaken  the 
sun  and  mown  down  all  distances  with  the  great  scythe 
of  his  head  and  his  slender  sword-like  legs. 

That  year  the  winter  began  terribly.  The  rains 
were  such  that  in  many  places  the  layer  of  earth  and 
its  verdant  down  slid  off  the  flanks  of  the  coast,  and 
one  saw  the  bones  of  the  land  arise. 

The  shepherd  and  the  dog  continued  regularly  to 
rescue  the  flock  from  famine,  and  while  the  pallid,  ter- 
ror-struck sheep  sought  for  the  drowned  grass,  both 
of  them  remained  on  their  feet,  the  man  planted  like 
a  sacred  monolith,  the  dog  like  a  doorway,  a  little  way 
from  the  twisted  tree  whose  shelter  they  avoided, 
knowing  that  the  lightning  aimed  at  it. 

One  night  something  appalling  came  to  pass.  At 
the  distance  of  a  shout  from  the  palisade  where  the 
flock  was  sheltering,  the  flood  of  the  tormented  sea 
submerged  the  natural  roadway  which  connected  the 
pastures  with  the  mainland.  The  sea  established  it- 
self on  that  steep-ridged  pass,  and  there  remained 
nothing  of  it,  around  the  new  abyss,  save  an  indistinct 
jawbone  of  reefs,  whose  half-drowned  crests  decoyed 
little  hollow  whirlpools  with  each  backwash  of  the 
tide.  That  night  the  tempest  roared  so  loudly  that 
Saar  thought  he  was  being  called.  He  sprang  for- 
ward, fiercely  assaulted  by  the  storm,  towards  the  shel- 
ter where  the  one  master  used  to  sleep.  He  caught  a 
glimpse  of  him,  sticking  fast  to  a  rock  in  the  middle 
of  the  blackened,  raging  azure  of  the  night.  Then 
suddenly,  without  the  dog's  knowing  why,  the  man 


SAAR  203 

plunged  into  the  abyss,  his  cloak  rioting  about  him,  as 
though  he  was  taking  wings  into  the  bowels  of  the 
earth. 

Big  Saar  waited,  his  muscles  so  tense  that  the  rock 
was  held  as  in  the  hand  of  a  god ;  and  the  rain,  beat- 
ing on  his  sides,  made  the  same  sound  as  in  falling  on 
stone. 

Dawn  came,  hardly  tempering  this  second  Deluge. 
The  wind  drove  clouds  of  rain  along  the  level  of  the 
ground,  like  flames.  Saar  lowered  his  pointed  bear's 
head,  and  began  to  run  about,  whining  and  questing. 
He  found  nothing  but  the  overflowing  of  the  sea, 
mingled  with  the  enormous  absence  of  the  master. 

Then  as  daylight  took  supremacy,  and  since  the 
hours  irresistibly  bring  actions,  he  drove  the  sheep  out 
from  the  enclosure  where  they  huddled  in  terror  on 
the  sponge-like  soil  against  the  partitions,  now  sticky 
with  mud.  He  steered  them  towards  the  fields  at  the 
extremity  of  the  promontory — changed  into  an  island, 
now  that  the  land  had  been  conquered  by  the  sea. 

He  utilised,  as  formerly,  the  effective  words  of  com- 
mand that  one  makes  by  barking.  For  instructions 
of  urgency,  he  mingled  the  various  sounds  that  the 
long  and  flexible  throat  of  the  northern  greyhound  is 
capable  of  producing.  He  scolded.  He  went  in  one 
jump  over  the  flock  to  hustle  into  the  right  direction 
a  sheep  that  was  unconsciously  attracted  by  the  sin- 
ister slopes. 

The  climbing  of  the  last  undulation  was  rough 
work.  Fie  had  to  direct  a  hard  battle  with  the  wind, 
which  hurled  itself  on  the  mass  of  timid  woolly  balls, 
shook  them,  and  tried  to  scatter  them  in  all  directions. 


204  WE  OTHERS 

Stubbornly,  however,  one  by  one,  the  dog  recon- 
structed a  complete  flock  out  of  the  defaulting  horde, 
by  force  of  enfolding  them  within  that  speed  that  was 
like  a  cord. 

In  this  way  the  humble,  bleating  travellers — sole 
inhabitants  of  this  corner  of  the  world,  henceforth 
torn  from  the  remainder — arrived  at  their  bourne,  the 
field  of  the  day  before. 

Each  ewe,  each  wether,  each  lamb  lowered  its  head 
and  munched  the  grass.  Saar  lay  down  apart,  as 
usual,  looking  beyond  the  pale  creatures  whose  indo- 
lent lot  was  woven  into  his  own. 

Then  a  dull  feeling  inside  him  forced  him  to  think, 
and  he  reflected  that  he  was  hungry. 

He  set  himself  to  wait  imperiously  for  his  master, 
for  him  whose  high,  flat  face  shone  more  than  any- 
thing, momentous  as  the  moon. 

No  one.  Only  the  time  went  by,  and  that  did  not 
let  itself  be  seen.  At  a  moment  when  a  feeble  gleam 
blanched  the  drowned  dome  of  the  sky,  the  big  dog 
got  up,  dissatisfied  and  empty,  confused  by  the  desire 
for  food  and  drink. 

As  the  succeeding  hours  only  worsened  that  internal 
wound,  he  moved  about,  yawned,  and  shivered.  At 
last  he  uttered  a  plaintive  cry,  a  cry  of  appeal,  a  com- 
mand to  his  master  to  help  him.  After  that  prayer, 
he  waited  for  the  answer  which  should  grant  it.  The 
answer  did  not  come,  his  master  being  no  longer  in  a 
place  where  one  can  hear  the  cry  even  of  an  abandoned 
friend.  No  doubt,  in  some  Valhalla  where  one  quaffs 
sunshine,  he  was  guarding  ideal  flocks  with  an  ex- 


SAAR  205 

traordinary  dog.  So  he  no  more  came  than  a  god 
comes  into  his  temple. 

When  Saar  discovered  that  his  cry  had  been  in  vain, 
that  the  master  would  not  obey  it,  he  risked  another 
call.  He  heard  Hunger  murmuring  and  singing  to  it- 
self in  his  sides;  languidly  he  turned  his  great  head 
towards  that  naked  voice.  Then,  whether  by  way  of 
caressing  himself,  whether  to  appease  and  console  the 
flesh  that  so  highly  deserved  to  be  satisfied,  he  licked 
the  tense  coat  on  the  curved  grating  of  his  ribs. 

The  evening,  however,  was  indicating  that  it  was 
above  all  necessary  to  return.  For  a  dog  impressed 
with  the  duty  of  guarding  living  things,  the  end  of 
the  day  constitutes  a  command  just  as  insuperable  as 
that  of  the  morning.  Saar  collected  the  flock,  and 
with  the  same  efforts  as  at  dawn,  the  same  distracted 
attentions,  he  drove  it  in  and  set  it  cuddling  against 
their  nocturnal  palings. 

Saar  fell  asleep.  He  dreamed  that  he  had  a  wolf 
by  the  throat.  He  woke  up  to  the  sound  of  the  queer 
muffled  outcries  of  his  nightmare.  He  stood  up, 
arched  the  spine  that  was  notched  like  a  mountain 
chain,  and  then  suddenly  disappeared  in  the  night — to 
look  for  a  wolf. 

But  there  was  nothing  stirring  in  the  island.  Only 
could  one  feel  passing  in  the  air — sterilised  by  the 
briny  cold — the  mad  comings  and  goings  of  winds  and 
gales. 

All  at  once  he  stood  still ;  his  ears  stiffened  like  those 
of  a  horse,  and  his  eyes  blazed  madly.  But,  still  more 
quickly,  he  breathed  out  a  gentle  little  howl,  and  ran 


206  WE  OTHERS 

back  to  his  sheep,  whose  scent  he  had  picked  up  in 
mistake. 

The  next  day  he  began  his  task  again — a  still  more 
severe  and  heroic  task,  for  his  belly  was  falling  in,  his 
eyes  were  reddening,  and  his  tongue  drooped  from  his 
gaping  mouth. 

But  he  could  not,  all  the  same,  remain  inactive.  He 
trotted  unresting,  as  light  in  his  passage  over  the 
grass-broidered  earth  as  a  dry  leaf  that  the  breeze 
leads  in  a  garden.  Once,  aloof  from  the  others — the 
eaters — he  extended  his  slim  jaws  with  their  white 
teeth  towards  a  blade  of  grass.  But  when  he  had  in- 
formed himself  of  the  insipid  and  worthless  taste  of 
the  green  stem,  he  left  off  chewing  it,  and  kept  it,  wet 
with  the  foam  of  his  spittle,  in  his  half-open  mouth. 

And  on  the  evening  of  the  third  day,  bristling  with 
emaciation,  his  flint-like  sinews  protruding  from  the 
rock  of  his  bones,  he  looked  with  hatred  on  the  in- 
dolent and  cloudy  creatures  that  he  was  tending.  And 
still  he  could  not  help  protecting  them ;  he  had  done  it 
so  much  and  so  long.  There  was  a  booming  vibration 
in  his  skull,  and  he  saw  flashes  of  light  under  his  blink- 
ing eyelids. 

At  dawn  on  the  fourth  day  he  could  hardly  tear 
himself  out  of  the  muddy  soil  and  the  sleep  that  bore 
him  down.  He  would  only  have  had  the  strength  to 
act  if  the  living  prey  of  which  he  was  so  tragically 
destitute  had  appeared  to  him.  But  since  the  only 
living  things  were  his  flock,  he  stayed  enshrouded  in 
the  ground,  and  dropped  one  weak  word  to  announce 
that  he  could  do  no  more.  Towards  the  evening  he 
closed  at  last  his  beautiful,  queenly  eyes,  and  laid  for 


SAAR  207 

ever  on  the  dark  earth  the  head  that  was  pointed  like 
a  promontory. 

Long  months  after,  when  the  floods  withdrew  and 
men  hauled  in  to  the  island,  they  saw  on  the  ransacked 
pastures,  stripped  of  the  last  blade  of  grass,  the  white 
carcases  of  the  sheep.  They  were  like  the  frames  of 
boats,  scattered  here  and  there  in  the  builder's  yard, 
their  sides  bristling  with  curved  timbers.  A  huge 
skeleton  like  that  of  an  ocean-going  ship  dominated 
the  others.  That  was  the  big  dog,  who  had  been  the 
first  to  die  of  hunger,  in  the  middle  of  the  sheep. 


THE  GREAT  DEEDS  OF  LANTURLU 

THE  slender  silhouette  of  the  leading  rider  be- 
came at  last  perceptible  in  the  sunny  distance. 
Several  cries  burst  forth,  here  and  there,  from  the 
stand  that  was  bedecked  with  uniforms,  and  then  they 
melted  into  one  shout — "It's  Gentil  on  Lanturlu! 
Bravo,  Lanturlu!" 

And,  in  fact,  so  it  was.  Carrying  his  young  and 
elegant  master  like  an  ornament,  the  splendid  horse 
finished  the  race  in  a  trot  of  marvellous  suppleness, 
while  his  rivals  were  still  only  dots  of  dust  on  the  hori- 
zon. In  front  of  the  official  stand  he  stopped 
abruptly,  and  his  bronze  figure  reared  so  admirably 
that  he  might  have  been  a  fixture  on  a  pedestal. 

The  grand  stands  shook  and  overflowed.  The 
choicest  of  the  spectators — ladies  in  beautiful  bright 
colours,  officers  in  beautiful  dark  colours,  civilians  col- 
ourless but  illustrious — surrounded  the  victors.  The 
women,  even  the  most  elevated,  even  the  prettiest,  be- 
trayed agitation.  Their  eyes  went  towards  the  lieu- 
tenant— who  was  rather  pale,  and  dangling  a  smile  to 
right  and  to  left — but  their  gloved  hands  fluttered  like 
butterflies  on  the  shining  metallic  neck  of  Lanturlu. 
The  general,  especially  resplendent  in  the  heart  of  the 
principal  group,  took  a  step  in  front  of  the  senators 
and  diverse  councillors,  opened  his  mouth,  congratu- 
lated the  officer,  and  then  paid  homage  to  the  horse, 

208 


THE  GREAT  DEEDS  OF  LANTURLU  209 

addressing  himself  to  its  natural  representative,  the 
rider. 

When,  led  bridled  but  respectfully,  the  animal  went 
from  the  Champ-de-Mars,  where  his  victory  had  been 
established,  to  the  ficole  Militaire,  where  his  box  was 
— henceforth  historical — when  he  went  forward  be- 
tween two  human  embankments  that  bristled  with  gap- 
ing faces,  cameras,  and  glances  swift  but  ineffaceable, 
he  was  welcomed  with  such  an  ovation  that  he  seemed 
to  understand  and  to  be  listening  confusedly.  Al- 
though his  legs  were  trembling  a  little,  his  breast-strap 
foam-splashed,  and  his  eyes  dazzled,  he  braced  his 
muscles,  arched  and  lightened  his  steps,  and  made  his 
beautiful  lines  glisten. 

In  the  depth  of  the  wooden  quadrangle  that  a  nar- 
row triangle  of  light  burst  into,  in  the  depth  of  the 
darksome  thoughts  in  which  he  dwelt  submerged,  con- 
scious only  of  shapeless  fragments  of  pictures  and 
vague  scraps  of  sound,  the  animal  mused  on  the  im- 
pression of  a  great  effort  mingled  with  a  great  reward. 
The  while  his  long  teeth  were  snatching  at  the  hay, 
the  horse  felt — yes,  he  felt  flickering  in  the  vice  of  his 
humble  skull  the  understanding  that  he  had  patiently 
and  heroically  obeyed  his  orders,  that  he  had  given,  as 
was  necessary,  his  strength  and  his  toil,  that  he  had 
given  supernatural  satisfaction. 

Lanturlu's  victory  had  been  easy,  although  the  con- 
ditions of  the  race  had  been  particularly  severe.  Peo- 
ple had  even  found  fault  with  the  immoderate  length 
of  the  last  stage,  the  one  in  which  the  victor  had  scat- 
tered all  his  rivals  broadcast  behind  him  on  the  road 
from  the  East. 


2io  WE  OTHERS 

In  those  days  the  lieutenant  his  master  was  per- 
fectly happy,  and  so  was  his  young  wife.  And  their 
little  Maurice,  who  was  born  on  exactly  the  same  day 
as  Lanturlu,  three  years  before,  set  up  a  little  pinkness 
on  his  pale  and  delicate  face. 

Eventually  the  champion  appropriated  the  Coupe 
du  Centre.  This  time  he  found  more  difficulties  in 
his  way,  and  he  had  to  put  out  an  enormous  expense 
of  energy  to  beat  Kali,  M.  de  St.  Aulaine's  filly,  by  a 
length. 

Two  years  went  by.  His  master  had  to  admit  that 
the  horse,  in  spite  of  his  breeding,  could  no  longer 
figure  in  the  big  ordeals.  He  was  still  famous,  by 
reason  of  his  two  championships;  but  it  was  his  name, 
it  was  no  longer  he,  that  was  glorified.  He  passed 
into  the  squadron,  falling  to  the  lot  of  a  man  who  was 
like  so  many  others  by  the  absence  of  stripes;  and  now 
he  was  only  called  Turlu.  "He's  a  famous  horse!" 
the  adjutant  announced  to  the  admiring  recruits,  in 
the  first  year.  "He's  been  a  famous  horse,"  remarked 
some  one  two  years  after,  who  remembered  the  fact 
because  Turlu,  following  on  a  wearying  round  in  the 
clay,  had  distinguished  himself  by  a  sort  of  resur- 
rected fire,  an  incomparable  final  rush. 

The  time  arrived  when,  after  a  sort  of  judgment, 
after  some  removals  and  imprisonments  in  new 
stables,  they  harnessed  him  to  a  cab.  Still  vigorous, 
in  spite  of  his  ten  years  fully  completed,  he  trotted 
cheerfully  through  one  season,  and  then  another. 

But  age,  that  mournful  malady  which  insufficient 
nourishment  was  aggravating,  began  to  make  continu- 
ous work  arduous  for  him. 


THE  GREAT  DEEDS  OF  LANTURLU  211 

The  old  champion  still  found,  in  snatches,  enough 
of  the  headstrong  spirit  of  his  noble  race,  of  the  ex- 
asperated impulses  of  his  "blood,"  to  carry  mean  er- 
rands in  the  labyrinthine  streets  through  to  the  end. 
To  reach  some  dismal  carriage-drive,  he  was  now 
more  tenaciously  wilful  and  heroically  obstinate  than 
he  had  once  been  to  trample  the  virgin  sand  around  the 
winning-post  and  the  judges'  stand. 

His  name,  handed  down  carelessly  and  without  in- 
terest, had  disappeared.  His  driver  did  not  know  it; 
so  that  Lanturlu  was  really  no  longer  anybody. 

So  many  days  fell  on  him  then  that  in  the  long  run 
they  bruised  and  wounded  him,  just  as  definitely  as 
blows.  His  body  got  out  of  shape  and  his  move- 
ments became  ridiculous.  His  bones  showed  them- 
selves more  and  more ;  his  skin  was  worn  out  in  places, 
and  even  bled.  In  spite  of  himself,  he  forgot  how  to 
gallop,  and  only  trotted  by  fits  and  starts — during  un- 
expected little  spasms  of  aggressive  enthusiasm,  of 
sportive  madness,  which  then  left  him  astounded,  so 
that  he  hopped  about  on  the  rank. 

Soon,  harness-gripped  and  whip-worried,  entangled 
in  the  intricacy  of  the  streets,  there  was  not  left  him 
enough  of  all  the  desperate  physical  obstinacy  be- 
queathed him  by  his  pure  ancestral  line  to  walk  with 
a  regular  step  as  long  as  they  wanted  him  to,  to  defend 
himself  daily  against  frightful  weariness,  to  reach  the 
end  of  the  day. 

One  morning  they  did  not  harness  him ;  but  a  man 
arrived  and  bought  him,  and  took  him  away,  saying 
to  the  grinning  ostlers,  "We'll  try  and  get  a  bit  more 


212  WE  OTHERS 

use  out  of  him.  I  shall  get  my  money's  worth  back 
all  right." 

The  horse  was  attached  to  a  truck  that  slid  on  rails, 
near  a  quarry.  The  truck  almost  went  by  itself,  and 
the  work  was  really  not  work  at  all. 

And  yet,  as  early  as  the  second  hour,  the  animal 
came  to  a  stop  between  the  rails,  as  much  the  prisoner 
of  the  little  vehicle  as  if  it  had  had  the  roots  of  a  wall ! 
He  shook  and  danced  on  his  folded  feet,  cracked  by 
the  endless  and  inevitable  toil.  They  shouted  at  him. 
He  stiffened  himself,  trembling;  his  eye  sparkled,  and 
fixed  as  if — shipwrecked  in  the  stormy  earth  of  the 
embankment,  he  struggled  to  move  forward.  And  he 
did !  When  the  truck,  at  the  end  of  a  few  yards,  came 
to  the  hole  where  it  would  be  emptied,  the  horse  had 
performed  the  most  admirably  sporting  feat  he  had 
ever  done  even  in  the  historical  and  brilliant  days  of 
his  career.  This  one,  in  truth,  was  his  obscure  and 
glorious  record! 

And  yet  this  was  not  his  most  magnificent  exploit. 
He  showed  himself  still  braver  and  stronger  three 
days  later,  for  a  few  minutes ;  although,  during  those 
minutes,  he  was  carrying  nothing,  dragging  nothing, 
and  a  man  was  even  pulling  him  along. 

But  he  could  no  longer  walk ;  the  mere  job  of  mov- 
ing himself  had  at  last  become  beyond  his  strength. 

And  so — just  when  there  happened  to  go  by,  in  the 
alley  and  quite  near  him,  a  four-striped  officer  with  a 
full-blown  and  charming  lady,  neither  of  whom  knew 
him  any  more  than  he  could  know  them,  just  in  the 
middle  of  that  brief  and  tragic  occurrence  that  no  one 
knew  of — he  stopped  dead  in  the  street. 


THE  GREAT  DEEDS  OF  LANTURLU  213 

By  jerks  his  head  drew  nearer  to  the  dark  ground, 
to  all  the  darkness  that  the  yawning  chasms  of  his 
great  eyes  were  gazing  at,  and  that  he  saw,  blindly. 
He  was  subsiding  gently.  He  was  going  to  yield  to 
the  weight — the  fearful  weight — of  himself,  against 
which  his  part  on  earth  had  been  to  struggle  increas- 
ingly, the  weight  which  was  now  drawing  the  whole 
of  him  towards  the  ground,  into  the  ground. 

"Gee  up !"  growled  the  dealer. 

Then,  at  the  eternal  master's  call,  at  man's  divine 
command,  all  the  pugnacious  fire  and  all  the  fierce 
hatred  for  obstacles  of  which  he  was  made  up,  all  the 
fatal  necessity  of  reaching  the  end,  started  to  life. 
The  noble  horse  tore  himself  from  his  supineness, 
made  one  step,  two  steps  away  from  nothingness,  con- 
tinued to  go. 

While  thus  he  was  staggering,  forward  and  up- 
right, he  heard  droning  through  the  poor  mad  brain 
that  the  narrow  coffin  of  his  skull  enclosed,  something 
like  a  storm  of  applause. 

And  so,  sublimely  and  by  a  sort  of  miracle  recre- 
ating his  utterly  finished  strength,  at  the  end  of  his 
life  contriving  a  new  one,  as  prodigious  as  a  statue 
that  walks  away,  he  passed  through  the  porch  of  the 
slaughterhouse. 


THE  MIRACLE 

TT  was  in  the  open  street  and  the  open  sunshine. 
•••  In  expansive  merriment,  two  little  girls  were  sit- 
ting on  the  seat  of  golden  stone  placed  against  the 
golden  house. 

They  shook  with  laughter;  they  were  laughing 
themselves  hoarse.  They  had  hair  like  tangled  black 
silk,  shining  eyes,  and  mouths  as  little  and  as  moist 
as  pomegranate  seeds. 

"There's  been  a  miracle,  and  I've  seen  it,"  asserted 
Tomasita,  with  all  the  force  of  her  bird-like  voice. 

"A  miracle?  And  you  saw  it?"  Conchita's  voice 
said,  still  more  shrilly,  as  she  straightened  her  little 
bare  neck,  like  a  rosy  collar,  and  raised  her  tiny 
orange-coloured  hands  with  their  thin  and  entirely 
black  nails. 

Tomasita,  who  had  eleven  times  in  her  life  seen 
the  month  of  May  begin  and  end,  again  called  the 
most  spotless  Madonna  to  witness  that  she  had  seen 
a  miracle. 

In  face  of  such  obstinacy,  Conchita  could  only  half 
shut  her  eyes  and  half  open  her  mouth,  in  expecta- 
tion of  supernatural  explanations. 

"It  was  one  day — just  imagine — yes,  it  was  a  very 
sad  thing — there  had  been " 

Embarrassed  by  the  super-preciousness  of  the  story, 
assailed  by  all  there  was  to  say  of  the  matter,  the 

214 


THE  MIRACLE  215 

child  did  not  know  how  to  begin.  She  shut  her  mouth 
and  wrinkled  her  forehead.  She  made  a  big  effort, 
among  all  the  first  words,  to  select  some. 

"She  was  a  beautiful  woman,  my  dovekin.  She 
was  called  Dolores,  Dolores  Malloca.  But  it's  noth- 
ing to  tell  her  name !  One  can't  know  how  pretty  she 
was,  without  seeing  her.  She  seemed  to  shine. 

"I've  told  you,  haven't  I,  that  she  came  to  stay  with 
us — at  Llassa,  on  the  other  side  of  the  Mansanilla. 
At  Llassa  it's  like  here,  but  it's  whiter  and  redder — 
it's  like  here  if  all  the  days  were  Sundays. 

"Her  husband  Daniel  had  gone  on  a  journey  for 
all  the  summer.  She'd  come  to  us  because  of  that, 
and  she  was  as  beautiful  as  angels.  She  was  so  beau- 
tiful that  when  she  was  coming  I  didn't  dare  go  near 
her,  and  when  I  was  with  her,  I  daren't  go  away.  But 
she  was  very  different  from  other  women — I  told  you, 
didn't  I?  She  was  serious — too  serious.  She  didn't 
say  much,  only  when  it  was  necessary,  and  I  believed 
for  a  long  time  that  she  couldn't  laugh.  She  had  lots 
of  dresses.  Well,  at  Easter  she  put  on  a  grey  dress." 

"A  grey  dress!" 

"Yes,  she  wore  a  grey  dress  on  purpose.  I  know 
why  she  was  like  that.  It's  because  her  husband  was 
a  long  way  off,  and  wouldn't  come  back  till  after  the 
summer.  She  was  thinking  about  him,  and  she  used 
to  talk  about  him.  One  day  she  was  murmuring  some 
sentences  like  one  says  a  prayer — and  I  saw  that  the 
sentences  were  chaplets,  made  out  of  his  name.  If 
you  spoke  to  her  about  anything  else,  she  looked  at 
you  for*a  minute,  with  eyes  as  big  as  a  mouth,  before 
understanding  and  answering.  Yes,  it's  because  he 


216  WE  OTHERS 

wasn't  there  that  she  was  sad,  and  wouldn't  like  red 
and  blue,  nor  violet,  nor  anything." 

"And  then?"  said  Conchita,  whose  eyes  were  set- 
ting off  her  high  colour  like  two  drops  of  dew  on  the 
pert  face  of  a  rose. 

"And  then  there  were  two  other  things;  the  first, 
that  she  went  on  being  sad,  and  that  it  was  too  much, 
and  nobody  understood  it  at  all.  And  the  other  thing 
was,  that  my  brother  Nemecio  was  gone  on  her,  and 
that  he  was  looking  for  her  always,  and  wanted  her." 

"Ah !"  said  Conchita,  and  she  heard,  lisping,  in  the 
obscurity  of  her  flesh  too  young  and  her  life  too  lit- 
tle, the  eternal  story  of  love. 

"And  she  was  more  and  more  serious,  more  and 
more  white  and  silent,  because  of  the  absence  of  mas- 
ter Daniel.  It  was  like  a  little  dead  body  in  her,  and 
a  little  mourning  on  her.  It  was  a  disease  of  meek- 
ness that  was  wearing  her  away.  Even  in  the  morn- 
ing, when  the  day  seems  to  make  promises,  or  at  noon, 
when  the  country  breathes  in  your  face,  or  along  the 
street  when  it's  as  hot  as  anybody,  and  even  when  the 
evening's  leaning  on  you,  she  used  to  go,  wrapped 
up  in  her  idea  like  a  nun,  without  seeing  anything,  or 
touching  anything,  or  tasting  anything. 

"And  Nemecio  was  very  miserable.  He  rolled  wild 
eyes,  and  bit  his  fingers.  He  hid  in  corners  like  a 
dog  that's  hurt.  One  day  when  I  went  up  to  him,  and 
he  didn't  see  me  because  I'm  little,  I  saw  that  he  was 
sobbing,  and  all  his  face  streaming,  as  if  his  heart 
was  really  bleeding. 

"Another  time,  he  was  talking  to  her,  and  I  was  be- 
hind. I  saw  his  back  and  it  was  moving,  and  I  saw 


THE  MIRACLE  217 

her,  all  straight  and  stiff  like  one  of  those  ghosts  that 
seem  like  a  long  veil.  He  said  to  her,  loud,  'I  wish 
you  hated  me !' 

"She  said  nothing,  not  even  'No!'  A  minute  after 
I  saw  her  face — a  statue — worse  than  a  statue — like 
the  Madonna  in  the  church,  when  you  ask  her  for 
something,  you  know. 

"So  then  I  understood  what  was  the  matter.  There 
was  a  spell — yes,  there  was  an  evil  spell  that  her  hus- 
band had  cast  on  her  when  he  went  away.  If  she  was 
so  cold,  and  still,  and  foreign,  it's  because  he'd  for- 
bidden her,  the  sorcerer  that  he  was,  to  come  out  of 
remembering  him.  Then,  you  understand,  dearie,  she 
couldn't  think  except  about  him,  and  she'd  got  the  se- 
cret of  how  not  to  smile  at  my  brother  when  he  was 
crying  quite  close  to  her." 

"And  then,  did  the  wicked  Daniel  come  back?" 

"No,  not  yet;  listen:  Then  she  went  to  the  arena 
with  us.  She  followed  us  in  the  gala  like  a  white 
shadow,  with  her  eyes  open,  and  her  mind  always 
taken  up  with  the  witchcraft  of  her  husband. 

"She  sat  down  on  one  of  the  rows  of  seats,  and 
made  quite  a  big  part  of  the  crowd  more  lovely.  She 
had  let  herself  look  forward,  pale  and  lonely  among 
all  those  people  so  happy  and  red  with  the  sun — she 
looked  like  the  moon  as  a  lady.  I  was  near  her,  and 
I  watched  her  not  moving. 

"But  all  of  a  sudden  she  trembled. 

"There  was  some  blood  in  the  arena.  The  bull  was 
a  bad  beast,  and  they'd  punished  him  with  the  goads. 
Blood  was  running  from  his  nose,  like  a  ribbon. 


2i8  WE  OTHERS 

"Then  she  watched,  her  eyes  open  with  all  their 
might  She  leaned  forward  and  stretched  out,  so  as 
to  see,  and  see  more  still.  Conchinetta,  she  was  com- 
ing to  herself,  she  was  waking  up,  at  last,  waking  up ! 

"A  moment  after,  a  horse  was  knocked  down,  and 
the  sun  showed  up  its  stomach,  that  was  gored  open. 
Then,  when  all  the  women  got  up  and  clapped  their 
hands,  she  too,  she  turned  into  a  woman  again  like 
the  others,  and  got  up  and  began  to  cry  out. 

"When  it  came  to  the  death-stroke,  she  said  in 
a  choked  voice,  'How  far  off  we  are,  how  far  off  we 
are!' 

"And  when  the  espada's  sword  went  in,  I  saw  her 
trembling  hand,  fine  as  silk,  seizing  and  squeezing 
Nemecio's  arm,  and  she  called  him  by  his  name,  in  a 
voice  like  singing.  She  wasn't  the  same  woman  when 
she  got  back,  because  she  was  like  the  others.  The 
spell  was  broken.  She  was  rescued,  she  was  rescued ! 
Wasn't  that  a  miracle  of  the  Holy  Virgin?" 

"Yes,"  said  Conchita. 

She  sighed,  and  her  eyes  wandered.  Then,  in  en- 
vious rapture,  she  said,  "There'll  come  a  day  when  I, 
too,  I  shall  go  mad,  like  the  others!" 

"Yes,  some  day,  you — and  me!" 

Their  faces  became  more  prettily  pink,  their  lips 
more  deeply  red.  They  held  their  peace,  in  the  same 
obscure  silence ;  they  lowered  the  lids  over  their  bright 
eyes.  They  shut  their  eyes  up  like  the  jewels  that  one 
puts  away  for  the  grand  galas  of  the  future.  It 
seemed  as  if  from  that  very  moment  they  began  to 
wait  for  the  universal  emotion  to  seize  upon  them  in 


THE  MIRACLE  219 

their  turn;  as  if,  like  two  bunches  of  grapes,  they 
were  exposing  their  two  young  selves  to  the  sun 
which  ripens  little  maids  in  their  flesh  and  in  their 
hearts. 


THE  OTHER  WORLD 

VERY  time  he  went  to  fetch  the  slain  bull,  trot- 
ting  behind  the  two  bell-adorned  mules,  he  saw 
in  a  flash  the  arena  and  the  rising  tiers  of  spectators. 

It  was  a  brief  and  blinding  escape  out  of  the  bull- 
den  under  the  stands  where  for  the  rest  of  the  show 
and  of  his  existence  he  laboured,  where  he  only 
straightened  his  bent  back  on  the  challenge  of  the 
death-cry. 

The  old  man  had  almost  been  born  in  that  gloomy 
retreat  where  the  bellowing  bulls  were  gathered  like 
storm-clouds  in  the  night,  the  den  whose  doors  slid 
open  under  the  grand  stand,  opposite  the  mountains 
of  spectators. 

His  passion  for  the  great  national  game  had  driven 
him  there  as  soon  as  he  had  found  his  childish  feet. 

Through  the  frantic  crowds  he  used  to  pick  his  way, 
an  impetuously  silent  youngster,  like  a  pickpocket. 
Between  two  agitated  backs,  beyond  the  enthralled 
and  crimson  face  of  an  old  man  or  that  of  some  pale 
and  shining  young  girl,  his  eyes  espied  the  torero, 
gesticulating  in  his  flaming  cape. 

In  those  days  he  had  dreamed  of  being  a  torero, 
too.  An  orphan,  he  had  dreamed  it  all  by  himself, 
and  he  told  himself  about  it  in  a  low  voice  as  soon  as 
his  companions  were  no  longer  there  to  force  him  to 
play,  and  prevent  him  from  listening  to  himself.  When 

220 


THE  OTHER  WORLD  221 

his  arms  had  gathered  strength,  he  prowled  about  the 
sacred  buildings  and  begged  for  a  situation  there.  He 
was  taken  among  the  drovers  and  drudges,  the  men 
whose  faces  were  like  terra  cotta,  the  lower  half  col- 
oured blue  by  the  razor. 

He  crept  from  one  occupation  to  another,  up  to  the 
bull-den,  on  the  very  edge  of  the  arena,  underneath 
the  enormous  assemblies  that  one  sometimes  saw  com- 
pletely shaking,  like  an  earthquake. 

He  would  never  be  a  torero.  They  told  him  so; 
and  then  he  saw  it  himself.  He  was  growing  up 
badly.  Massive  and  sturdy.  He  was  developing  the 
wrong  way.  He  bore  his  solid  shoulders  like  an  awk- 
ward burden,  and  one  of  his  heavy  hands  swung  lower 
than  the  other.  The  Devil,  further,  who  thinks  of 
everything,  had  put  on  his  face  an  ugliness  which 
grew  bigger  and  more  obtrusive  with  age.  This  ugli- 
ness first  provoked  little  girls  to  loud  laughter,  and 
then  bigger  ones  to  little  exclamations.  It  was  a  mat- 
ter of  general  discussion,  a  subject  for  the  tender 
discourse  of  lovers.  One  spoke  of  it  as  one  did  of 
bad  weather.  When  the  good  incumbent  of  La  Roche 
met  the  menial  of  the  bull-den,  the  priest  bowed  his 
head,  somehow  ashamed. 

How,  in  such  case,  was  it  possible  that  he  could 
ever  become  one  of  those  whose  sword  made  red  and 
resplendent  as  a  bonfire  the  bull  in  the  sunshine? 

He  resigned  himself  to  obscure  vegetation  in  the 
hole  whence  the  brute  emerged,  invincible,  where  it 
fell,  vanquished.  The  immense  disillusion  gave  him 
no  pain;  his  mind  had  gradually  ceased  to  progress. 
His  somnolent  thoughts  were  not  capable  of  con- 


222  WE  OTHERS 

structing  internal  dramas.  He  forgot  how  to  hope, 
and  then  how  to  regret.  But  he  had  preserved  his 
youthful  worship  of  the  arena.  It  sufficed  him  to  live 
quite  close  to  it,  in  the  shadow  of  its  sunshine,  to 
appear  for  a  few  minutes,  after  each  death-blow,  in 
the  middle  of  the  plaza's  crater. 

The  enclosure  still  rang  with  the  applause  hurled 
down  to  the  espada  when  he  attached  the  draught- 
rope  to  the  bull  to  take  it  away  from  the  battlefield, 
and  he  picked  up  like  crumbs  the  last  shouts  of  the 
victors  around  the  last  silence  of  the  fallen  beast. 

'time  went  by.  The  obscure  and  deformed  super 
of  the  formal  ceremony,  of  the  sumptuous  sacrifice, 
hardly  left  the  den  where  he  was  buried  like  a  root. 
He  continued  to  grow  old  and  be  ugly.  His  eyes 
blinked  and  shed  tears  when  he  went  into  the  light; 
and  his  cheeks  and  chin,  once  grimy,  covered  them- 
selves with  a  grey  powder. 

Nothing  had  happened  in  his  life.  Nothing?  Yes, 
one  thing,  or  rather  one  person — a  very  little  girl,  who 
looked  at  him  from  a  long,  long  way  off. 

There  had  been  a  little  girl,  dainty  as  a  jewel,  that 
he  had  held  in  his  hands,  on  his  knees,  for  a  little 
while — one  season,  perhaps,  or  two  seasons,  of  the 
bull-fights — and  with  her  little  violet  eyes  that  made 
her  different  from  everybody,  which  caused  her  so 
much  to  be  pointed  out,  she  looked  at  him. 

Twenty  years  had  gone  by  since  the  child  had  slipped 
through  his  fingers  and  gone  away  to  the  other  world. 

The  coming  of  the  frail  being  lent  to  him  by  fate 
had  been  preceded  by  a  jumbled  nightmare,  full  of 
cries,  full  of  a  woman's  sobs.  He  had  no  longer 


THE  OTHER  WORLD  223 

dared  to  think  of  that  woman — through  fear,  or  cau- 
tion, through  some  holy  or  base  feeling,  or  through 
poverty  of  mind,  and  soon  he  was  no  longer  capable 
of  it;  but  he  had  never  prevented  the  childish  face 
from  looking  at  him  from  the  depths  of  death,  from 
smiling  expressly  at  him.  So  that  now  he  only  saw 
that  image  when,  retired  to  his  hole  in  the  evening, 
he  closed  his  eyes,  or  when  in  the  middle  of  the  night 
he  opened  them. 

And  this  was  the  limit  of  his  future,  of  the  resur- 
rection of  his  heart.  More  years  went  by.  He  was 
still,  as  always,  exclusively  devoted  to  his  duty  as 
keeper  of  the  huge  victims;  and  he  remained  conse- 
crated in  his  heart  to  the  soft  picture  of  her  who  was 
like  the  Madonna  and  the  child  Jesus  at  one  and  the 
same  time,  since  she  was  a  little  girl. 

At  last  his  ears  hardened,  his  broad  back  took  the 
curve  of  a  vault.  When  he  came  out,  in  order  to  con- 
clude the  resplendent  tragedy  of  the  arena,  his  head 
turned  more  painfully  towards  the  multitude  staged 
like  gardens  on  the  tiers,  and  he  heard  more  indis- 
tinctly the  scraps  of  shouting  that  bespattered  him. 
Did  he,  perchance,  imagine,  in  those  days  when  the 
universal  light  around  him  was  slowly  decreasing,  that 
the  glory  of  the  arena  was  dwindling  among  the  multi- 
tude grown  old?  Yet  the  spectators  remain  eternally 
young,  and  belief  in  battles  with  the  beasts  is  more 
and  more  deeply  anchored  in  the  depths  of  the  human 
body. 

One  day  his  head  weighed  him  down  more  than 
ever,  and  he  felt  himself  drunk  with  darkness  as  he 


224  WE  OTHERS 

came  forward  into  the  sheet  of  sunlight  with  unsteady 
steps. 

The  bull?  He  looked  for  it  with  his  hand  shading 
his  eyes.  He  saw  it  and  guided  towards  the  helpless 
mass  his  coupled  animals,  with  the  hook  dangling 
behind  them. 

There  they  stopped.  The  mules  shook  themselves. 
The  roars  of  the  crowd  had  not  yet  died  out,  and  sud- 
denly at  a  gesture  of  the  espada  they  were  renewed. 

At  this  moment  the  old  man  realised  that  every- 
thing was  turning  upside  down  around  him.  He  tot- 
tered, tried  madly  to  catch  hold  of  space,  his  arms 
beating  like  wings;  he  fell  forward. 

He  fell  in  such  a  way  that  his  head  struck  the 
ground  quite  close  to  the  monster's  muzzle,  quite  close 
to  the  enormous  head  which  projected  from  the  sand 
of  the  arena  like  a  dark  reef.  As  he  did  not  try  to 
rise,  nor  even  think  of  it,  nor  even  know  who  he  was, 
the  man  looked  wildly  at  the  head  of  the  wild  beast. 

It  was  not  yet  quite  dead,  but  it  was  dying.  The  great 
eye,  enormously  open,  like  a  deep  wound — oh,  so 
deep! — was  troubled  and  dull.  And  the  passivity  of 
that  head,  soon  to  be  mingled  with  all  the  nothingness 
that  ever  was  and  will  be,  seemed  to  the  miserable 
man,  whose  head  was  brought  equally  low,  as  some- 
thing immense  and  fantastic.  He  was  dazzled  by  a 
sort  of  terrible  and  measureless  proof  of  the  profun- 
dity of  a  living  being — proof  which  one  only  discerns 
on  the  shore  of  this  world,  as  though  it  were  in  an- 
other. He  did  not  deign  to  notice  that  they  were  pull- 
ing him  away,  and  feeling  him.  He  had  the  time,  in  a 
thrill  of  supernatural  emotion,  to  feel  surprised  how 


THE  OTHER  WORLD  225 

blind  men  are  to  all  that  life  means.  Life — Death. 
Murder  is  an  uncommon  and  easy  miracle.  The 
drover's  frightened  eyes,  as  they  lifted  him  up,  were 
seeking,  seeking  and  settling  on  those  others,  so 
equally,  so  divinely  frightened,  as  if  he  had  discovered 
all  in  them.  And  it  is  in  that  simplicity  of  our  death, 
of  the  death  of  all  of  us,  that  his  feeble  spirit  passed 
away. 

Far  from  the  golden  track  where  a  new  bout  was 
making  ready,  they  laid  him  on  some  straw. 

"He  is  dead,"  said  the  elegant  doctor. 

This  doctor  was  rather  in  a  hurry,  like  all  young 
people.  The  old  man's  throat  was  still  trembling  with 
the  echo  of  a  rattle  that  one  might  have  heard  by 
stooping  over  him.  His  heavy  lips  were  gurgling  in 
a  clumsy  effort  to  hold  the  last  breath  back. 

And  all  in  a  beautiful  light,  very  different  from  the 
light  of  this  world,  his  eyes  saw  a  darling  little  girl 
with  violet  eyes,  who  was  trying  to  put  her  embrac- 
ing little  arms  round  the  big  head  of  a  bull. 


THE  BROTHER 

^T^HE  village  of  Resat  is  cut  in  two  by  the  valley 
•*•  of  the  Gueusine.  Out  of  the  twenty-four  pink- 
ish roofs  scattered  in  this  lean  corner  of  Auvergne, 
a  dozen  pile  themselves  up  on  the  grassy  side  of  the 
ravine  and  the  other  dozen  on  the  bald  side.  If  any 
would  venture  to  cross  from  one  bank  to  the  other, 
the  odds  are  on  his  losing  his  footing  and  rolling  from 
rock  to  rock  down  to  the  bed  where  the  Gueusine  ex- 
tends itself. 

It  is  human  enough  that  the  two  groups  of  inhab- 
itants, divided  by  the  gulf  as  nations  are  by  distance 
or  by  the  hideous  significance  of  frontiers,  do  not  like 
each  other. 

But  there  were  two,  especially,  who  looked  askance 
at  each  other  across  the  ferocious  cavity  where  the 
Gueusine  is  let  loose — Jacquinot  and  Quinquin.  Their 
houses  exactly  faced  each  other.  One  of  the  men  had 
a  face  yellow  and  moist  as  mastic,  and  the  other  a 
beaming  face,  very  brightly  coloured,  which  diverted 
the  children. 

It  was  related  that  a  close  friendship  had  united 
them  formerly — one  too  good  to  last.  One  of  them 
grew  jealous;  that  was  Jacquinot.  From  him  pro- 
ceeded the  hatred.  Quinquin  hardly  did  more  than 
follow  suit  and  hate  in  his  turn,  resignedly- 
stupidly,  if  you  like. 

226 


THE  BROTHER  227 

So  an  untiring  enmity  separated  these  two  people. 
Their  duel  consisted  in  trying  to  grow  richer  than 
the  other.  That  was  enough.  The  success  of  either 
affected  the  other  like  a  defeat. 

Luck  was  equal  at  first.  In  the  autumn  of  '92 
Jacquinot  bought  The  fitablies  meadow;  but  '93  had 
not  yet  shown  itself  when  Quinquin  retorted  by  the 
purchase  of  the  Mansour  slope.  Several  years  later 
Jacquinot  had  not  had  time  to  enjoy  his  acquisition 
of  a  cow,  a  prolific  milch-cow,  fair  and  white,  when 
Quinquin  became  the  possessor  of  an  ass,  called  Remi. 

From  that  time  things  changed,  because  Quinquin 
changed.  Former  instincts  of  dreaminess  and  idleness 
stole  into  him.  He  began  by  attaching  himself  too 
much  to  this  Remi,  who  had  coarse  grey  hair,  in- 
finitely sensitive  ears,  and  a  look  of  probity. 

The  fonder  he  became  of  his  obscure  companion,  the 
less  vigour  he  put  into  struggling,  economising, 
scourging  himself  with  work,  and  getting  more  money 
than  Jacquinot. 

The  latter,  on  the  other  hand,  did  not  lay  down  his 
weapons  for  the  satisfaction  of  his  bellicose  intent. 
His  vigour  and  his  avarice  brought  their  harvest. 
When  Marie  Pesard's  corner  was  sold  by  auction — 
it  was  splendid  soil,  through  having  been  dunged  for 
fifty  years — Jacquinot  got  it. 

In  spite  of  this  rude  shock,  which  might  have 
awakened  a  dead  man,  a  magic  spell  of  indulgent  in- 
ertia took  possession  of  Quinquin.  He  smiled  at 
passers-by  like  a  drunkard,  or  at  the  ass  Remi  like 
a  madman.  He  talked  when  he  was  all  alone,  or, 


228  WE  OTHERS 

worse  still,  he  addressed  himself  to  Remi,  in  order  to 
make  him  wag  his  serious  head. 

From  time  to  time  he  went  out  with  no  intention 
of  working;  and  once  outside,  he  would  gaze  at  the 
fields,  for  no  other  reason  than  to  see  them!  He 
went  about  the  country  to  no  purpose,  and  it  pleased 
him  to  find  that  pollarded  willows  look  like  people, 
all  with  the  same  thing  to  gossip  about;  that  big 
flights  of  pigeons,  as  they  rise  from  the  roofs,  have 
the  movement  and  the  sound  of  a  fan ;  with  other  such 
imaginings  in  the  matter  of  the  woods,  and  the  leaves, 
and  the  little  animals. 

In  that  way,  what  was  bound  to  happen  came  along 
in  the  form  of  a  bad  debt,  which  went  on  and  on, 
and  got  bigger  and  complicated.  Dates  came  round 
with  bills  to  meet,  which  he  could  wipe  out  per  contra ; 
then  suddenly — a  last  one,  which  could  not  be  wiped 
out.  On  the  advice  of  a  lawyer,  as  persuasive  as  a 
priest,  he  had  recourse  to  a  little  sale.  Now,  the 
parcel  of  land  that  Quinquin  tore  away  was  knocked 
down  to  Jacquinot. 

What  a  victory !  From  across  the  Gueusine  he  had 
got  right  in  among  the  enemy !  It  was  really  affecting 
to  see,  as  you  went  by — the  enclosure  carefully  sur- 
rounded by  a  very  high  fence,  in  the  middle  of  Quin- 
quin's  clover.  The  latter's  little  homestead  seemed  to 
have  been  mutilated. 

Following  that  event,  Quinquin  lowered  his  head  in 
the  street.  Then  spring  came  to  comfort  him,  and 
people  heard  him  one  morning  singing  like  an  in- 
corrigible bird. 

Then  it  was  that  he  met  Leontine,  Leontine  whom 


THE  BROTHER  229 

full  daylight  suited  so  well !  She  had  hair  as  fair  as 
the  flame  by  which  one  keeps  vigil ;  and  her  bright  eyes 
were  of  richness  incalculable.  Quinquin  was  stupe- 
fied at  first  by  the  appearance  of  this  passer-by,  whom 
he  used  to  look  at  and  listen  for  equally  when  she 
came  near  and  when  she  had  gone  away.  Then  the 
world  became  a  beautiful  palace,  specially  built  around 
her.  One  evening  she  stood  still  for  a  little  while, 
near  to  him,  looking  like  a  saint.  Several  evenings 
after  he  dared  to  murmur  a  prayer  before  her.  Then 
a  slight  blush  blossomed  on  her  silky  cheek,  and  the 
miracle  happened  that  she  listened  to  him. 

Yet  June  had  not  ended  when  she  disappeared.  He 
waited  for  her,  in  distraction,  till  the  day  when  he 
saw  her  face  shining  and  blooming  on  the  other  side 
of  the  river,  on  the  threshold  of  Jacquinot's  house. 

Jacquinot  had  taken  his  betrothed  from  him!  The 
unlucky  man  tried  to  compete,  to  meet  her  again. 
But  she  avoided  him;  her  father  interposed  and  used 
brutal  and  humiliating  language  to  him. 

While  he  sought  tremblingly  to  recover  the  savour 
of  joy,  or  even  only  of  peace,  Jacquinot's  luck  in- 
creased, while  his  own  still  dwindled.  His  face  wrin- 
kled and  acquired  so  mournful  an  air  that  the  little 
girls  began  to  be  afraid.  People  turned  away  from 
him.  In  return  for  his  looks,  there  only  remained 
those  of  Remi,  whose  attachment  increased  patiently 
every  day.  The  man  liked  to  put  his  arms  round  the 
donkey's  neck,  and  when  the  animal  took  a  step  nearer 
him  so  that  he  could  rub  his  head  better  on  his  chest, 
that  was  his  only  compensation  here  on  earth. 

Protracted,  perishing  rains  in  the  autumn  sufficed 


230  WE  OTHERS 

to  ruin  him.  All  he  possessed  had  to  be  sold,  and  as 
the  chastisements  of  fate  never  come  singly,  he  took 
cold,  by  the  side  of  the  empty  fireplace,  on  the  very 
day  the  matter  was  decided. 

He  went  to  bed  shivering.  After  a  heavy  night- 
mare he  opened  his  eyes.  It  was  broad  daylight,  but 
there  was  no  one  near  him.  He  thought  of  calling, 
but  as  no  one  could  come  he  kept  silent.  Besides, 
helpless  and  choking,  was  he  capable  of  shouting? 

The  deserted  man  rolled  distressful  eyes.  And  lo, 
the  window,  insecurely  shut,  opened,  and  a  dark,  un- 
shapely silhouette  appeared! 

It  was  Remi  that  had  come,  attracted  merely  by  the 
presence  of  his  master;  Remi,  out  of  his  reckoning, 
ignorant  and  artless,  like  the  spirit  of  affection. 

The  man  wanted  to  say,  " You  will  not  forsake  me !" 
but  he  stammered  some  formless  sounds,  as  one's 
throat  does  in  dreams ;  and  he  fancied  he  was  stretch- 
ing out  his  arms  to  Remi,  and  he  thought  from  the 
bottom  of  his  heart,  with  all  his  might,  that  this  was 
his  brother. 

Remi,  who  was  sparing  in  effusiveness,  wagged  his 
honest  face  and  withdrew. 

Quinquin  died  that  night  or  the  following  morning. 

Jacquinot  bought  his  house — a  final  apotheosis, 
rather  spoiled,  all  the  same,  by  the  premature  disap- 
pearance of  the  conquered. 

It  was  quite  a  big  job  to  get  Remi  away.  He  seemed 
to  have  decided  to  stay  planted  there,  and  he  stiffened 
himself  obstinately  on  his  feet.  But  they  tugged  him 
and  beat  him  in  such  a  way  that  he  was  obliged  to 
trot  where  they  wanted  him  to.  By  the  road  which 


THE  BROTHER  231 

descends  along  the  Gueusine,  by  the  distant  bridge 
of  Garages,  and  by  the  other  road  which  comes  back 
up  the  right  bank,  he  arrived  at  Jacquinot's  house. 
On  the  same  day  they  harnessed  him  to  go  to  market 
at  Clamarande. 

Leontine  was  laughing  with  the  fame  of  having 
a  carriage ;  Jacquinot  was  feeling  pride  and  joy  trem- 
bling in  the  skin  of  his  face. 

Husband  and  wife  wedged  themselves  in  with  diffi- 
culty among  the  vegetables  and  baskets.  Remi,  being 
whipped,  set  off. 

But  behold!  Instead  of  following  the  road,  he 
turned  sharply  to  the  left  and  shot  across  the  field 
towards  Quinquinas  house — you  could  see  it  facing 
you,  but  it  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  ravine! 

There  Remi  .was  returning,  quite  straight,  quite 
plainly,  in  unconquerable  hope.  In  the  little  carriage, 
swept  away  and  jolting  about,  Jacquinot  scolded  and 
bellowed,  Leontine  uttered  piercing  cries.  But  Remi 
cared  neither  for  their  shouts  nor  those  of  the  peas- 
ants who  came  running  with  upraised  arms,  nor  for 
the  furiously  shaken  reins.  With  the  perfect  sim- 
plicity of  one  being  who  loves  another,  he  was  anxious 
to  return  to  their  house.  There  could  not  have  been 
anything  beyond  that  in  the  perfection  of  so  paltry 
a  heart. 

Jacquinot  straightened  himself  to  jump,  but  Leon- 
tine  fastened  on  to  him  in  terror  and  held  him  tight. 

The  carriage  reached  the  edge  of  the  precipice.  It 
happened  that  the  ass,  already  falling,  turned  his  head 
towards  his  new  masters,  and  they  had  the  time  to  see 
in  his  big  eyes  the  shining  angel  of  a  soul. 


THE  MORT 

the  seat  which  leans  against  my  house  I  was 
looking  once  more  at  my  little  domain  before  it 
went  to  sleep  in  the  twilight,  at  my  fore-court,  spread 
out  at  my  feet.  On  the  right  was  my  quickset  hedge, 
and  in  the  wall  opposite  me  my  gate,  which  is  always 
open. 

That  gate  looks  on  to  the  road  that  borders  the 
forest,  and  it  showed  me  a  cloud  of  leafy  branches 
gilded  by  the  setting  sun,  gilded  also  by  the  autumn, 
like  a  sun  still  more  huge. 

The  day  was  ending  gently  and — I  thought — care- 
fully. The  refined  light  on  my  hedge  brought  out 
the  tints  in  perfection,  and  applied  itself  to  every 
flower  and  even  to  every  leaf. 

Harshly,  a  blowing  of  horns  burst  forth.  Some 
turn-out  of  the  old  marchioness  was  going  by  in  the 
forest. 

And  behold,  a  great  silhouette  of  strange  design 
appeared  on  the  threshold  of  my  gate,  blocking  up  the 
whole  opening.  Then  the  huge  mass  leaped  forward, 
recoiled,  and  wavered  in  the  middle  of  the  courtyard. 

It  was  a  stag,  the  one  that  the  guests  of  the  chateau 
had  been  pursuing  for  hours.  He  stood  there  a  mo- 
ment, and  we  looked  at  each  other.  I  could  dimly 
see  that  his  coat  was  stained  with  mud  and  foam,  his 

232 


THE  MORT  233 

big  eyes  troubled,  and  his  heart  beating  his  sides  like 
a  hammer. 

He  made  another  leap,  and  withdrew  into  the  hol- 
low of  an  angle,  facing  forward,  but  at  the  end  of 
his  strength,  motionless,  silent,  ignorant.  But  frantic 
barks  were  surrounding  the  house.  The  hounds  were 
piling  themselves  up  around  the  gate  and  howling 
against  the  wall. 

Behind  them,  breathless  and  excited  children  were 
running  up  in  increasing  numbers.  Soon  all  the  in- 
habitants of  the  village  were  about  us.  Triumphantly 
they  pointed  at  the  stag  with  the  huge  antlers,  as  if 
he  had  been  a  kind  of  savage  king  at  last  arrested  in 
his  career. 

A  hurried  backing  of  the  spectators  now;  horsemen 
and  horsewomen  turned  the  corner — a  whirlwind  of 
red  coats  and  dust,  a  clatter  and  the  cracking  of  whips, 
the  flashing  of  bright  metal. 

All  came  to  a  disorderly  stand,  and  the  huntsmen 
drew  up  behind  the  discordant  line  of  the  dogs  to 
sound  the  mort. 

And  alone,  infinitely  alone,  the  obscure  life  which 
had  let  itself  be  caught  in  the  trap  of  my  house  did 
not  stir.  In  resignation  he  waited  for  the  peace  of 
life  or  for  the  peace  of  death.  I  saw  the  excited 
movements  of  the  crowd  that  was  after  his  blood; 
and  I  saw  him  living,  I  felt  that  his  flanks  were  heav- 
ing and  his  throat  trembling — his  throat,  the  object 
of  that  desperate  holiday. 

A  red  horseman  had  nimbly  dismounted.  With  a 
slow  movement  he  drew  his  hunting-knife  from  its 
sheath,  and  one  could  see  the  blade  was  damascened. 


234  WE  OTHERS 

The  dogs  continued  to  give  tongue;  but  everybody 
had  stopped  talking  and  moving  about,  and  each  one 
was  watching,  watching  to  the  utmost.  There  were 
stifled  cries,  mingled  with  some  hysterical  laughter. 

The  man  prepared  to  come  into  the  courtyard. 
Questioning  me  with  a  movement  of  his  head,  he 
shouted — one  had  to  shout  to  be  heard  above  the  up- 
roar of  the  dogs — 

"You  allow  us,  I  suppose,  monsieur?" 

But  I  put  out  my  arm  to  bar  the  way,  and  shouted 
in  my  turn,  "No,  I  will  not  allow  you !" 

He  stopped  dead,  nonplussed. 

"Eh?  What,  what?  What  did  you  say?"  He 
turned  towards  the  newcomers.  "He  will  not  let  us 
go  in!" 

The  announcement  was  received  with  a  cry  of 
amazement,  into  which  the  shrill  note  of  feminine 
voices  entered. 

"The  insolent  fellow!"  cried  an  old  lady.  She 
spoke  to  one  of  her  companions :  "Offer  him  money !" 
she  said  aloud. 

"You  will  be  paid  for  any  damage,  my  good  fel- 
low!" 

My  eyebrows  puckered,  and  he  found  nothing  more 
to  say. 

Then  they  all  began  to  speak  at  once,  asking  me 
questions,  baffled  and  fevered,  with  a  terrible  anger 
lighting  up  their  eyes. 

Buttressed  against  my  threshold  like  a  post,  I  looked 
upon  those  besieging  faces,  those  faces' that  a  strange 
chance  allowed  me  to  see  so  nakedly  near. 

All  of  them  bore  the  stamp  of  the  same  murderous 


THE  MORT  235 

instinct,  suddenly  let  loose  by  my  opposition.  It 
showed  unmistakably  on  their  features  through  all 
the  words  and  excuses  and  arguments.  If  they  were 
wanting  to  hurl  themselves  on  me  in  rage  and  hatred, 
it  was  not  only  in  wounded  pride,  but  hideous  disap- 
pointment. 

They  had  run  the  flying  beast  to  earth,  and  now 
that  the  run  was  over,  they  wanted  to  cut  its  throat. 
One  of  them  tried  to  explain  that  to  me,  in  broken 
phrases,  and  while  he  spoke  he  turned  his  head  towards 
their  prey,  so  as  to  inspect  it. 

An  old  man  put  out  his  hand,  like  clutching 
claws,  towards  the  hoped-for  victim.  Another,  more 
ferocious,  gazed  on  it  with  longing. 

And  the  women  were  uglier  than  the  men.  Shame 
kept  their  actual  words  back  in  their  throats,  but  they 
were  wholly  in  the  throes  of  an  extraordinary  agita- 
tion. One  knew  they  had  surrendered  to  a  disgrace- 
ful expectation,  that  all  their  bodies  shook  with  it. 

One  of  them,  very  young,  with  her  plaited  hair 
dancing  half -loosened  on  her  back,  had  slid  into  the 
front  row  in  a  sudden  impulse,  and  lifting  her  charm- 
ing eyes  to  me  and  clasping  her  hands,  she  said,  "I 
beg  of  you,  monsieur!" 

In  comparison  with  the  passionately  discomfited 
crowd,  the  baying  of  the  hounds  had  assumed  some- 
thing of  innocence.  Dogs  are  slaves,  and  all  they  had 
against  the  stag  was  human  hatred. 

And  the  country  folk  were  now  more  aloof.  It 
seemed  to  me  that  they  were  separating  themselves 
from  the  others,  as  though  they  began  to  understand 
that  hunting  was  not  what  they  thought. 


236  WE  OTHERS 

A  humble  woman,  with  a  child  in  her  arms,  went 
away  hurriedly,  as  though  she  had  suddenly  feared 
contagion.  The  village  butcher,  in  the  blood-stained 
apron  of  his  trade  and  with  his  arms  majestically 
crossed,  was  watching,  and  one  read  on  the  sombre 
workman's  face  an  expression  of  contempt  and  anger. 

Yet  the  snarling  and  the  menace  were  growing 
fiercer. 

I  knew  that  we  should  both  be  overcome,  that  I 
could  not  long  defend  the  hunted  beast,  so  great  was 
their  desire  to  assassinate  it. 

My  eyes  rested  on  the  huge  animal,  which  was  not 
even  wounded ;  and  dreams  of  kindness  passed  through 
my  head  in  hopeless  hurry  and  disorder.  The  few 
minutes  of  life  that  I  had  saved  for  it  till  then  seemed 
to  me  precious  and  almost  affecting.  Thinking  of 
the  bloodthirsty  shouts  which  beset  me,  I  thought  how 
alike  in  their  dying  are  the  human  being  and  the  ani- 
mal, which  differ  so  prodigiously  in  life;  and  that  all 
living  beings  pass  away  in  fraternity. 

So  I  clenched  my  fists,  and  stammered,  "I  will  not 
allow  it!  Go  away!" 

But  the  crowd  was  overflowing,  and  ready  for  any- 
thing. "We  must  have  him !"  panted  a  voice.  "The 
mort,  the  mort !"  shouted  the  rest. 

"I  have  it!"  A  little  hand  was  waving:  "We  can 
kill  it  from  here  with  my  carbine!" 

"True!    True!    A  good  idea!" 

"Let  me!     Let  me!" 

A  young  man  cocked  the  carbine  and  measured  the 
distance  with  his  eye.  I  seized  the  weapon  by  the 
barrel  and  tore  it  from  his  grasp. 


THE  MORT  237 

"Clodhopper!"  he  sputtered. 

Then  it  was  that  the  pressure  became  everywhere 
irresistible,  and  the  mad  crowd  poured  in. 

Lifted  up,  hustled,  and  forced  back,  I  still  tried  to 
make  myself  heard :  "Go  away — I  will  not  permit  it !" 

But  their  furious  glee  would  listen  no  longer;  they 
rushed  towards  the  animal,  which  from  the  angle  of 
the  wall  opened  his  eyes  with  the  great  empty  peace- 
fulness  of  nature — or  of  death. 

And  then  I  know  that  I  hurled  myself  in  front  of 
the  condemned  creature ;  I  know  that  I  shouldered  the 
carbine  and  fired  on  the  pack  of  men  and  women — 
and  I  know  that  I  did  right! 


REVENGE 

I  N  the  circus  dressing-room,  all  among  the  poor 
•••  tinselled  finery — vainglorious  posters  and  the  rub- 
bish of  scenery — the  little  lady  lion-tamer  was  laid 
out,  cold  and  still.  They  had  placed  her  on  some  wall- 
hangings  and  drapery,  as  if  on  flags ;  and  I  was  keeping 
vigil  alone,  still  wearing  my  lion-tamer's  costume. 

My  grief  was  in  vain.  She  was  dead,  my  compan- 
ion, my  wife,  my  child,  she  who  had  devised  for  me 
so  many  good  words  and  beautiful  looks.  All  through 
the  hours  of  my  sobbing,  while  the  gleam  of  the  can- 
dle trembled  on  her,  her  little  face  was  becoming  more 
and  more  motionless. 

This  was  her  last  night  on  earth.  This  one  night 
more,  although  dead,  she  was  there,  by  my  side.  This 
one  night  more,  although  dead,  she  smiled  at  me.  Her 
restful  features  had  regained  their  true  form,  their 
habits,  and  so,  naturally,  she  had  begun  to  smile  at 
me.  This  one  night  more  I  might  have  touched  her. 
But  to-morrow  she  would  be  in  the  ground,  and  then, 
secret  and  solitary,  she  would  change. 

And  all  my  mourning,  all  my  impotence,  were  re- 
iterated in  a  futile  prayer,  an  insane  invocation  that  I 
uttered  tremblingly:  "Oh,  that  this  tragedy  had  not 
happened !  Oh,  that  she  had  not  gone  into  the  cage ! 

Oh,  my  God,  that " 

238 


REVENGE  239 

And  my  thought  went  in  a  frightful  shudder  to  the 
one  that  had  killed  her — him — the  big  lion. 

In  a  corner  of  the  cage — I  do  not  know  how,  for 
the  hideous  thing  was  so  swiftly  over — a  mysterious 
spasm  of  anger  had  thrown  the  huge  monster  on  her, 
and  she  was  killed  instantly. 

Yet  now  she  was  so  smiling  and  so  sweet!  It  was 
her  smiles  and  sweetness  that  obsessed  me  most  while 
I  remained  there,  not  daring  to  look  anywhere  but  at 
her,  so  few  were  the  moments  left  to  us.  The  tor- 
turing memory  of  the  purity  of  her  voice  came  to  me, 
the  buoyancy  of  her  walk,  the  smallness  of  her  hands ; 
and  I  writhed  again. 

The  lion — the  lion !  It  was  towards  midnight  that 
I  was  seized  by  a  desperate  and  convulsive  rage  against 
the  big  accursed  lion.  A  fierce  idea  took  root  in  my 
brain — to  be  revenged  and  slay  him! 

And  I  rose  staggering,  to  go  and  kill  him. 

I  went  along  a  passage,  around  the  slanting  canvas 
of  the  circus,  and  I  came  to  the  cages  with  my  lantern 
alight  and  my  revolver. 

I  remember  no  more  of  the  details.  At  the  end, 
wholly  against  the  bars,  moved  the  monumental 
shape.  Then,  disturbed  in  the  sovereignty  of  his  slum- 
ber, the  lion  rose  and  extended  himself,  hostile  and 
fierce;  his  claws  tore  the  boards  of  the  floor,  and  a 
hoarse  snarl  came  from  the  hell  of  his  throat. 

Mad  fury  arose  to  my  head.  I  put  out  my  arm. 
Once,  twice,  six  times  I  fired. 

Hideous  and  huge  the  phantom  rose  to  its  full 
height,  like  a  house  blown  up  by  a  mine.  He  shook 
himself  terribly.  As  in  a  hurricane,  the  cage  and  the 


240  WE  OTHERS 

whole  show — and,  one  would  have  said,  the  earth  it- 
self— trembled. 

Then  he  breathed  a  little  plaintive  mew,  and  I  knew 
it  was  a  sound  of  inmost  suffering.  He  sighed  and 
sank,  and  I  heard  him  licking  his  wounds. 

His  heart  must  have  been  hacked  by  the  bullets. 
In  an  instant  his  blood  filled  the  cage  and  dripped  out- 
side. 

I  was  cold  as  ice,  and  stupefied ;  I  could  do  nothing 
more. 

But  suddenly  acute  remorse,  unlooked-for  and  har- 
rowing, carried  me  away.  I  went  into  the  cage  and 
up  to  him,  and  I  heard  my  lips  asking  his  forgiveness. 
He  ceased  to  lick  himself,  remained  for  a  moment 
motionless;  then  he  leaned  gently  against  me,  reveal- 
ing the  huge  wound  whence  his  blood  flowed  like  a 
spring. 

And  we  stayed  thus,  both  of  us,  side  by  side,  not 
understanding.  The  great  body  continued  to  spread 
its  blood  abroad  and  to  utter  a  very  faint  rattle,  veiled 
and  choked,  as  if  meant  for  me  alone.  Ah,  that  too 
little  voice,  that  seemed  to  be  speaking  so  quietly  to 
me!  The  gigantic  face,  bristling  and  full  of  dark- 
ness, was  declining  slowly  towards  the  ground,  and  I 
could  see  the  green  beacons  of  his  eyes  waning  like 
lamps. 

Stooping  low,  I  looked  at  him  closely,  and  a  sort  of 
wonder  smote  me  to  see  such  a  big,  strong,  and  beau- 
tiful work  of  creation. 

I  searched  the  emerald  twilight  of  his  gaze;  I 
scanned  the  lines  of  his  body,  gathered,  piled  up,  and 
sculptured  under  that  heavy  velvet;  and  all  the  won- 


REVENGE  241 

derful  organism  put  together  for  a  career  of  extraor- 
dinary adventures  and  victories.  I  put  out  my  hand 
and  touched  the  enormous  head — helpless  and  ob- 
scure, perhaps,  but  a  world  all  the  same. 

I  saw  him  better  and  better,  more  and  more.  My 
gaze  went  down  into  him,  as  into  a  well.  I  looked 
on  him  as  one  might  upon  treasure.  I  worshipped 
his  so  innocent  pride,  his  fire  and  his  fierce  love  of 
life,  the  menacing  plenitude  of  his  slumber,  the  supple 
tension  of  the  clusters  of  his  flesh,  the  festival  of  his 
banquets,  and  his  tawny  acquaintance,  born  of  the 
desert,  with  the  mirage,  the  daylight,  the  oasis,  the 
night,  and  the  stars. 

I  stroked  the  paw  he  had  placed  too  gently  on  the 
ground,  and  my  fingers  mingled  with  his  half-extended 
claws.  His  claws!  He  had  killed  her — her,  with 
those  claws.  He  had  stained  exquisite  flesh  with  those 
hideous,  criminal  claws. 

Criminal?  No — innocent!  There  was  but  one 
criminal — myself ! 

And  as  I  almost  lay  on  the  body  whose  throbs  came 
less  frequently  and  grew  immense,  I  clasped  the  dying 
giant  in  my  arms,  and  trembled  as  I  pressed  him  to 
me,  while  he  surrendered  his  head  upon  my  heart. 

Then,  like  a  sleeper  awakened,  like  a  blind  man 
restored  to  sight,  I  saw  Truth  change  her  shape.  I 
began  to  unravel  things  more  terrible  and  more  de- 
lightful than  I  had  till  then  been  capable  of  under- 
standing— the  incalculable  value  of  life  and  action,  of 
all  that  which  my  frail  judgment's  decision  had  cast 
into  the  mud,  into  corruption,  into  dust. 

I  had  added  this  supineness  to  the  other — to  that  of 


242  WE  OTHERS 

the  little  angel  laid  down  yonder  like  a  crucifix.  I 
had  made  death  more  pitiless  and  more  infamous. 

All  was  worse  than  it  was  before.  The  murder  of 
the  child  and  the  murder  of  the  lion  had  no  resem- 
blance, none.  With  a  prodigious  effort,  I  tried  to 
reconcile  these  tragedies,  to  join  them  together,  to 
change  them  for  each  other,  not  merely  to  add  them 
to  one  another.  I  could  not,  I  could  not! 

One  must  needs  be  mad  to  go  after  revenge.  Why? 
Because  a  calamity  cannot  wipe  out  a  calamity.  Why  ? 
I  do  not  know ;  but  revenge  is  not  a  human  thing. 

And  when  he  died,  in  spite  of  the  immensity  and 
desperation  of  my  regret,  I,  in  a  poor  fevered  night- 
mare, could  not  help  stammering  to  myself  that  he 
had  gone  to  Paradise! 

Since  then  I  have  wandered  through  many  years. 
But,  wretched  as  I  have  become,  I  have  kept  in  me  in- 
comparable remorse.  There  is  something  profound 
that  I  know,  that  I  have  seen.  I  who  have  slain  some- 
body— no,  not  somebody — yes,  somebody! — I  hold 
such  a  respect  for  life  that  I  can  no  longer  be  misled 
whenever  the  issue  is  somewhat  wide;  and  when,  hid- 
ing in  some  field,  motionless  as  a  scarecrow,  I  see  the 
shooters,  or  even  children  let  loose  among  the  butter- 
flies, or  even  the  anglers,  who  do  not  know  so  much 
about  it  as  I,  I  pity  the  poor  people. 

Sometimes  my  belief  turns  me  in  another  direction, 
and  I  would  like  to  cry  out  upon  revenge,  and  be- 
seech you  all  to  burst  that  bond  that  you  would  fain 
establish  between  one  suffering  and  another. 

This  is  a  very  heavy  burden  of  mine — to  have  ac- 
quired the  right  to  make  such  profound  decisions.  It 


REVENGE  243 

is  not  given  to  all,  by  one  chance  in  their  lives,  to 
have  regarded  a  living  creature,  if  only  an  animal, 
so  perfectly  that  they  can  see  how  little  real  difference 
there  is  between  all  those  who  can  feel  pain. 

It  is  difficult  to  see  the  truth  and  to  keep  it  within 
sight.  Preparation  is  necessary  for  that,  and  also  a 
coincidence  of  events.  In  the  ordinary  course  of  time 
all  things  become  confused;  error  hangs  brutally 
heavy,  and  we  are  so  little  that  our  little  thoughts 
hide  infinity  from  us. 


THE  NAME 

/F  two  loose  nerves  in  the  neck  of  a  dog  are  tightly 
bound  together,  then,  by  the  discontinuity  of  the 
neuroplasma  thus  provoked,  the  dog  must  always  die, 
always. 

He  had  often  tested  it  by  experiment,  but  in  his 
hurry  to  carry  it  out  once  more,  he  went  through  the 
streets  with  long  hasty  steps,  wrapped  in  the  long  over- 
coat that  looked  like  a  priest's  robe. 

His  studious  face  was  poked  forward.  The  light  of 
the  lamps  seemed  to  have  taken  the  colour  out  of  it; 
arguments  and  reveries  had  fixed  his  features  like 
writing  and  wiped  out  the  youth  of  it. 

A  great  thought  had  settled  itself  in  his  mind  and 
haunted  him  for  years:  this  theory  of  the  nervous 
system,  was  it  true  or  false?  Who  was  right?  Of 
those  who  defend  it  and  those  who  deny  it,  who  are 
the  victors  and  who  the  vanquished? 

That  day,  the  desire  to  find  one  more  proof  of  his 
conviction,  under  the  scalpel  that  quivers  in  the  flesh, 
the  desire  to  know  still  a  little  more  infallibly  what 
he  knew,  was  speeding  his  footsteps. 

He  arrived  at  the  grey  house,  alone  in  the  suburb's 
wandering  territory,  aloof  from  the  others  because  of 
the  experiments  and  the  cries. 

An  old  man  opened  the  door  to  him.  "Is  every- 
thing ready,  Gervais?" 

244 


THE  NAME  245 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Good;  I  will  join  you  in  the  laboratory/' 

There  they  reappeared  to  each  other,  clad  in  long 
white  blouses.  It  was  a  wide,  low  room  with  a  tiled 
floor,  and  marble  tables  scattered  about.  One  might 
say  that  it  was  the  skeleton  of  a  room,  and  its  white- 
ness was  soiled  by  the  beginning  of  the  evening. 

One  heard  the  dripping  of  a  tap  on  the  stone,  and 
some  stifled  lamentations  that  came  from  the  foot  of 
the  wall,  where  some  holes  were  contrived,  and  closed 
with  bars.  In  the  depth  of  these  holes  some  dark 
forms  were  moving,  though  they  could  be  seen  only 
by  stooping. 

The  servant  arranged  some  phials  and  instruments. 
The  other  man,  with  a  label  in  his  hand,  was  refresh- 
ing his  memory  of  a  formula  with  a  last  glance.  Then 
he  came  to  the  central  table,  which  was  carefully 
washed  and  supported  a  little  trestle-stand,  a  sort  of 
diminutive  bed,  just  big  enough  to  take  a  child. 

"Number  223!"  the  master  commanded. 

"Yes,  sir."  Hastening  his  step,  which  rheumatic 
old  age  was  making  dilatory,  Gervais  approached  one 
of  the  niches,  stooped  over  it,  and  opened  the  hatch. 

Number  223  shot  out  of  it  so  suddenly  that  he  es- 
caped the  servant's  outstretched  hand,  and  set  off  at 
full  gallop  round  the  laboratory. 

The  assistant  stifled  an  oath,  and  the  master  a 
growl. 

Number  223  rushed  and  jumped,  got  round  the  ob- 
stacles, held  fast  to  the  slippery  floor  and  turned  the 
corners,  all  with  incredible  speed.  He  had  big  black 
feet  and  they  seemed  to  grow  more  numerous,  and  to 


246  WE  OTHERS 

be  mixed  together.  He  was  long  and  high,  quite  black 
and  quite  thin,  his  belly  hollow  and  his  back  like  a 
saw.  He  uttered  short  barks  of  high  spirits  and  de- 
fiance. Drunk  with  liberty,  he  was  playing,  with  all 
his  might,  and  he  filled  the  mournful  room  with  a 
festival  of  gaiety  and  joy. 

Gervais,  abashed  at  the  scandal,  tried  in  vain  to 
catch  the  dog  again,  and  the  old  man  felt  his  clumsy 
and  futile  hands  trembling.  He  dreaded  the  wrath 
that  would  certainly  be  gathering  yonder  under  the 
long  blouse  so  still  and  straight,  and  the  pale  head 
whose  eyeglass  was  focussed  on  him. 

Number  223  had  come  to  a  standstill  three  paces 
from  the  man,  but  on  the  first  movement  of  a  hand 
he  was  off  like  a  shot  to  the  other  end  of  the  room. 

"Enough  of  that!"  growled  the  angry  master;  "are 
you  going  to  get  him,  after  all;  yes  or  no?" 

Then  he  turned  his  back  with  an  irritated  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  and  began  nervously  fumbling  in  his 
instrument  case,  so  as  to  keep  himself  in  countenance 
while  waiting. 

Gervais  tried  to  approach  the  fugitive  dog  by  de- 
grees and  by  artifices ;  but  No.  223,  inured  to  this  sort 
of  exercise,  dodged  him  every  time,  and  clamorously. 

When  quite  tired  out,  the  assistant  had  an  inspira- 
tion: 

"Here,  Medor!     Medor,  come  here!"  he  cried. 

Number  223  understood  that  he  was  spoken  to, 
for  he  uttered  a  distinct  bark  and  erected  the  sharp 
triangle  of  his  head. 

"Come,  Medor!"  said  Gervais  again.  But  he 
stopped  dead,  his  mouth  agape.  The  savant  had  struck 


THE  NAME  247 

the  marble  table  with  his  lean  fist,  and  his  trembling 
voice  questioned  him  with  astonishing  violence,  "Why 
are  you  giving  him  a  name,  you  old  fool,  you  old 
lunatic?" 

Why  was  he?  He  spluttered  in  bewilderment,  for 
he  did  not  know.  To  begin  with,  that  was  not  his  real 
name,  of  course.  Dogs  were  no  longer  given  such 
names. 

The  master  knitted  his  brows.  "Old  lunatic!"  he 
growled. 

But  he  had  put  his  case  down,  and  with  empty 
hands  and  hanging  arms  he  watched  the  excited  dog 
run  round,  as  he  brought  all  his  artless  resources  into 
play  to  escape  the  executioners  for  a  moment.  The 
master  lingered  over  watching  him  live,  surprised  at 
the  importance  he  had  assumed  since  a  poor  name 
had  by  chance  been  cast  at  him. 

He  had  become  something  else,  all  at  once,  as  though 
it  had  been  a  miracle. 

Till  then  he  had  been  Number  223,  an  obscure  or- 
ganism, only  existing  for  experiments,  his  only  fate 
to  yield  the  blood,  the  pain,  and  the  problem  of  his 
flesh  to  those  who  wanted  them.  Till  then  he  was 
jumbled  with  the  two  hundred  and  twenty- two  whose 
agony  they  had  utilised  to  give  life  to  formulas,  to 
sustain  theories,  and  had  then  cast  out  the  remains. 

Now  he  was  personified ;  he  had  become  an  identity. 
One  was  forced  to  see  that  he  lived,  quite  as  much  as 
the  other  living  things.  The  name  had  pointed  him 
out,  with  all  that  he  stood  for — his  power  of  thinking 
hazily,  of  desiring  so  many  things  and  of  being  un- 


248  WE  OTHERS 

happy,  and  the  humble  treasure  of  his  memories,  too, 
his  friends  and  his  past,  divinely  secret. 

He  had  not  changed,  yet  suddenly  he  had  been  rec- 
ognised. No  sort  of  argument  could  wipe  out  that 
revelation. 

After  a  little  awkward  silence,  the  lawmaker  asked, 
"Where  does  he  come  from?" 

Gervais  raised  his  arms — no  one  knew!  Not  from 
the  town,  in  any  case.  From  the  country,  no  doubt; 
perhaps  from  the  suburbs.  He  was  a  sort  of  sheep- 
dog, with  hair  like  a  goat.  Yes,  certainly  they  lived 
in  a  village,  they  whom  he  had  lost. 

However,  believing  that  he  was  forgotten,  the  con- 
demned dog  drew  near.  He  came  and  sniffed  at  their 
hands  with  infinite  innocence,  and  as  he  lifted  his  eyes 
towards  theirs,  they  sparkled  in  his  coaly  face. 

He  uttered  a  tiny  lament,  and  it  was  as  though  they 
had  spoken.  Then  he  said  nothing,  meekly.  He  re- 
mained standing  there,  steady  as  a  statue.  One  could 
only  see  the  vibration  of  his  breath,  and  the  beating 
of  his  heart. 

Gervais  dared  not  touch  him;  he  awaited  the  mas- 
ter's orders,  who  kept  silence.  Then  Gervais  timidly 
risked  saying,  "There  are  people  looking  for  him." 

And  the  old  man  looked  at  the  young  scientist  with 
slight  entreaty. 

The  theorist  seemed  to  come  out  of  a  dream,  and 
said  very  quickly,  in  a  clear  and  unaccustomed  voice : 
"I  am  no  longer  able  to  do  anything  with  him.  Take 
him  away.  I  don't  want  him  any  more.  Not  him!" 

"Yes,  sir,  not  him!"  said  Gervais,  and  his  eye  was 
bright  and  his  heart  had  become  all  glorified. 


THE  NAME  249 

They  stood  there  several  seconds  longer,  in  the 
deepening  twilight.  Darkness  effaces  details,  and 
helps  us  to  come  nearer  each  other.  Among  the 
shadows  one  notices  profundities  that  daylight  dis- 
guises; and  one  thinks,  in  a  creative  brotherliness 
akin  to  genius,  of  the  things  one  does  not  know,  and 
the  rights  one  has  not.  And  during  that  brief  and 
fleeting  moment  there  was  no  difference  between  the 
abashed  scientist  who  had  forgotten  his  science,  the 
humble  workman  who  let  his  heart  speak  for  itself, 
and  the  other,  who  in  comparison  with  them  was 
hardly  more  than  a  stranger. 

And  the  old  servant  dared  to  murmur  aloud,  sym- 
pathetically, "My  dear  sir!" 


THE  ONE  GROWN  OLD 

A  T  Compiegne,  the  post-chaise  goes  back.  This  is 
-**•  the  last  stage.  In  the  bus,  now,  I  am  shaken  up, 
and  my  brown  curls  are  dancing  round  my  oval  face. 
While  I  look  mechanically  through  the  window  at  the 
driver's  leather  coat,  tossing  about  like  a  sailor  on 
the  waves,  and  at  the  road  which  hurries  from  the 
front  to  the  rear  past  its  border  of  bushes,  I  am  dream- 
ing. 

Wrapped  up  in  this  tasselled  shawl  of  violet  silk, 
I  certainly  look  old  enough  for  a  married  woman.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  I  am  twenty-three.  It  is  six  years 
now  since  I  went  away  from  this  country  where  I  am 
going  back  at  full  speed;  six  years  since  I  left  those 
who  brought  me  up — my  uncle  Bertin  and  my  aunt, 
and  my  cousins  Delphine  and  Dorothee,  and  my  cousin 
Florestan — to  go  into  the  Convent  of  White  Ladies 
at  Amiens. 

I  am  returning,  rich  in  experience,  still  thrilling 
with  the  wise  whisperings  of  the  Mother  Superior 
and  the  sisters,  and  the  serious  and  infrequent  murmur 
of  Monseigneur. 

But  my  convent  memories  are  growing  faint.  This 
is  the  last  day  of  October.  The  red  rays  of  the  de- 
clining sun  glide  over  the  ground  like  interminable 
passers-by;  the  sound  of  the  angelus-bell  mingles  with 
those  on  our  horses. 

250 


THE  ONE  GROWN  OLD  251 

So  I  am  looking  again  on  that  evening  at  the  end 
of  October,  1840,  six  years  ago,  when  I  went  away 
along  the  trailing  shafts  of  sunset,  amidst  the  inter- 
woven ringing  of  big  bells  and  little  ones. 

That  evening,  after  the  tears  and  excitement  of  fare- 
well, my  family — by  adoption — had  grouped  them- 
selves on  the  moss-velvet  of  the  old  garden  steps, 
close  to  the  grotto  with  the  ornamental  weeping  willow 
at  the  entry,  so  as  to  watch  me  going  away  on  my  god- 
father's arm,  the  admiral.  My  cousins  Delphine  and 
Dorothee,  one  eight  years  old  and  nursing  her  doll, 
the  other  twelve  and  swinging  her  work-bag,  showed 
me  in  the  sunset  their  faces  golden  as  their  hair,  and 
their  mouths  shining  like  cherries.  Florestan  was 
shaking  on  his  long  legs,  and  my  uncle  was  nodding 
his  fine  lawyer-like  head,  a  head  like  that  of  the  King 
of  the  French,  and  my  aunt  was  standing  as  straight 
and  as  pale  as  our  statue  of  Pomona  that  was  dressed 
in  ivy  up  to  the  chin. 

And  Fido,  the  black  dog.  He  understood  that  I 
was  going  away,  and  objected  to  it!  He  ran  from  the 
others  to  me  and  from  me  to  the  others,  speedy,  pa- 
tient, and  obstinate.  He  tried  to  multiply  himself,  and 
so  make  a  chain  between  us!  But  he  could  not  pre- 
vent the  separation. 

All  has  changed.  Because  all  things  change.  They 
told  me  again  and  again,  at  Amiens.  The  good  ladies 
there  prepared  me  for  it,  in  affectionate  a-n.d  confi- 
dential tones.  One  grows  up  quickly  and  grows  old 
very  quickly.  Six  years  are  quite  a  remarkable  space 
of  time.  Besides,  Messieurs  de  Chateaubriand  and 
de  Lamartine,  whom  we  secretly  adored,  disclose  in 


252  WE  OTHERS 

a  hundred  tuneful  ways  the  transformations  that  years 
bring. 

All  things  change,  all  things  grow  old.  I  have 
changed.  How  I  must  have  grown  old !  I  am  sighing, 
between  the  jolts  of  the  diligence,  whilst  my  arrival 
draws  near  and  oppresses  me. 

We  stop — Villevert,  already!  I  have  arrived  and 
climb  down.  We  are  early  and  there  is  no  one  to  meet 
me.  I  will  go  on  alone  into  Senlis.  The  way,  of 
course,  is  by  the  bridge  over  the  Nonette. 

But  I  am  not  all  abroad!  On  the  contrary,  I  can 
see  everything  familiarly  and  easily.  The  Senneliers' 
meadow  is  coming  into  view,  and  seems  to  be  speak- 
ing gloriously  to  me.  The  shadows  of  the  trees  in  the 
avenue  fall  on  me  in  a  way  I  know  well.  I  could  al- 
most believe  that  those  trunks  come  forward,  one  by 
one,  and  go  with  me  a  little  way,  without  looking  like 
it.  And  at  the  bend — there  is  the  house ! 

The  red  gate — I  recognise  it  so  completely  and  so 
sweetly  that  really  we  are  recognising  each  other! 

I  push  the  gate,  and  in  spite  of  its  venerable  hinges, 
it  opens  without  saying  anything.  I  am  dazzled  with 
trembling  surprise — there  they  are !  All  my  relations, 
just  there,  gathered  in  the  sunset  on  the  steps  all  vel- 
vety with  moss.  It  is  a  chance  that  they  are  there, 
since  they  are  not  expecting  me  yet.  But  it  is  so  much 
the  same  group  as  six  years  ago!  Just  as  then,  the 
faces  of  Delphine,  nursing  a  bunch  of  flowers  instead 
of  a  doll,  and  of  Dorothee,  who  holds  a  book  instead 
of  embroidery,  are  reflecting  the  evening  light.  Flore- 
stan,  his  hands  as  timidly  empty  as  when  he  was  nine- 
teen years  old,  is  oscillating  in  the  same  way  on  those 


THE  ONE  GROWN  OLD  253 

long  legs.  Close  by  the  grotto  and  the  willow,  my 
uncle  still  looks  like  a  statue  of  Louis-Philippe,  and  my 
aunt  a  statue  of  a  woman. 

Well !  Six  years  have  gone  by !  And  yet  it  seems 
to  me,  in  the  flash  of  my  first  glance,  as  if  I  had  just 
said  good-bye  to  them  before  catching  the  diligence  for 
Amiens.  Yes,  no  doubt  I  have  forgotten  something 
or  other  and  am  coming  back,  and  no  doubt  my  god- 
father the  admiral  is  waiting  for  me  just  outside  the 
gate,  with  his  two  hands  crossed  on  the  silver  knob  of 
his  stick,  his  chin  nodding  on  his  gaudy  waistcoat — a 
waistcoat  like  West  Indian  birds. 

"Noemie!     Noemie !" 

They  have  seen  me  and  are  hurrying  towards  me, 
my  uncle  and  aunt  gently,  my  three  cousins  very 
quickly.  They  seize  me,  and  clap  their  hands,  and 
laugh.  We  shout,  and  all  of  us  try  to  talk  at  once. 
Affectionate  tears  are  shining  in  the  eyes  of  Delphine 
and  Dorothee,  and  I  can  feel  them  in  mine,  too. 

We  are  the  same!  Although  Delphine' s  face  is  a 
little  longer,  and  Dorothea's  skirt  a  little  less  short, 
over  those  white  stockings  with  the  black  ribbons  of 
her  satin  buskins  wound  round  them,  they  are  the 
same.  The  loving  smile  of  the  parents  and  the  awk- 
ward smile  of  Florestan  are  identical  with  those  I 
took  away  with  me  once  upon  a  time.  All  have  stead- 
ily remained  true  to  the  pictures  kept  in  my  memory. 
And  the  grotto,  and  the  willow,  and  Pomona  in  her 
ivy  costume  have  remained  so,  as  if  they  were  people. 
As  for  me,  I  am  exactly  the  Noemie  of  before.  The 
more  I  open  my  eyes,  the  more  I  recognise  myself 
everywhere. 


254  WE  OTHERS 

We  are  strolling  in  the  last  lustre  of  the  evening. 

No,  we  do  not  change!     No,  we  do  not  grow  old! 

What  was  all  that  they  told  me  yonder — about  the 
mysterious  menaces  of  time  and  human  changes? 
The  good  ladies  were  very  wrong  to  put  me  so  dread- 
fully on  my  guard  against  the  passing  of  time.  Grow- 
ing old?  It  is  a  sort  of  terrible  legend  made  up  by 
nuns  who  have  no  acquaintance  with  life,  and  by  poets 
who  sing,  shut  up  in  their  poetry  like  noble  foreigners. 

As  we  turn  out  of  the  walk  that  is  enclosed  between 
box  hedges,  trimmed  and  high,  I  say  suddenly,  "Ah! 
What's  that?" 

A  shape  is  trailing  itself  along  the  gleaming  border 
and  coming  towards  us,  lifting  a  sort  of  face  from 
time  to  time.  It  is  a  tottering  dog,  quite  grey,  with 
tufts  of  woolly  hair,  and  scars  on  its  back. 

"It's  Fido,"  says  Dorothee. 

I  shake  my  head  hard :     "No,  it's  not  Fido !" 

"Yes,  it  is  Fido,"  my  cousin  replies;  "but  he's  old." 

The  dog  stops,  a  few  steps  in  front  of  us,  and  stares 
at  me  painfully,  with  eyes  that  are  dull,  and  their  lids 
deformed  and  blood-shot. 

"He  was  five  years  old  when  you  went  away,"  Del- 
phine  explains.  "He's  eleven  now,  and  dogs  only  live 
twelve." 

Then  I  stop  dead,  and  begin  to  tremble  a  little,  and 
bend  over  this  living  but  worn-out  and  almost  done- 
for  creature. 

Yes,  it  is  indeed  Fido,  he  whom  I  had  often  played 
with  as  if  he  had  been  a  jolly  toy,  black  and  brotherly, 
when  his  eyes  were  bright,  his  coat  new,  and  his  hap- 
piness full-blown.  I  find  some  traces  of  him  again 


THE  ONE  GROWN  OLD  255 

through  the  misery  that  clothes  him,  and  at  the  bottom 
of  the  poor  grimace  that  disfigures  him. 

"Are  you  old,  Fido?     Are  you  old?" 

He  seems  to  move  his  dusty  old  head,  and  in  that 
way  to  say  "yes,"  without  understanding  any  more 
than  I.  I  stoop,  very  gently,  to  get  nearer  to  him,  and 
on  a  level  with  him.  I  look  at  him  face  to  face,  and 
then  I  see  old  age! 

Because  of  the  difference  in  length  of  time  between 
the  lot  of  a  dog  and  that  of  other  people,  he  reveals 
what  we  shall  all  be  one  of  these  days — grown  ugly, 
sullied  and  collapsed,  with  hollow  eyes  that  weep  and 
worse  than  weep,  with  the  infirmity  of  a  heart  that  has 
hardly  strength  or  good-nature  enough  left  to  go  on 
beating.  Yes,  condemned  sooner  than  we  are,  he  be- 
stows that  forecast  on  the  transient  young  people  that 
we  are  as  yet.  He  proves  that  they  are  right,  the 
beautiful  books  and  the  serious  friends  who  warn  us 
of  the  tragic  changes  of  life. 

Cured  in  a  moment  of  my  youthful  foolishness,  I 
stand  convinced  in  face  of  this  prophet,  so  simple,  so 
majestic. 


THE  MOTHER 

ON  the  day  after  the  funeral  she  went  back  to  the 
hospital  to  get  little  Adelin's  clothes.  At  dusk 
she  pushed  open  the  right  hand  gate,  where  the  notice- 
board  is,  and  went  along  the  drive  that  the  hearse  had 
taken,  in  the  opposite  direction,  bearing  a  white  cof- 
fin, as  little  as  a  doll's  cardboard  box. 

She  went  into  the  familiar  entrance-hall.  Madame 
Isabelle,  in  a  white  apron,  was  going  through,  and 
smiled  at  her  awkwardly  as  she  passed.  She  gave  the 
nurse  a  greeting  that  was  short  and  restrained,  so  that 
she  would  not  cry.  The  effort  made  her  almost  stum- 
ble at  the  entry  into  the  corridor.  She  passed  along 
it  and  sat  down  in  the  waiting-room,  rising  when  her 
turn  came.  At  last  she  received  her  parcel  through  a 
little  window.  The  man  who  handed  it  out  dared  not 
raise  his  eyes  to  hers,  and  she  did  not  think  of  looking 
at  him.  Henceforth  there  was  nothing  in  the  world 
for  her  but  these  few  garments.  It  was  very  little  to 
possess,  a  paper  parcel  as  big  as  a  hand,  and  separately 
the  baby's  light  blue  frock,  washed  and  ironed.  She 
fled. 

She  had  hardly  reached  the  threshold  of  the  prin- 
cipal building  when  she  must  stop,  unfold  the  dress, 
and  look  at  it. 

Hanging  at  the  end  of  her  fingers,  it  was  extraordi- 
narily bright,  for  in  the  evening  blue  is  more  white 

256 


THE  MOTHER  257 

than  white  itself.  The  woman  was  dazzled  by  the 
apparition  of  the  garment,  the  only  living  thing  left  of 
the  child  who  was  now  an  orphan  in  Paradise.  She 
felt  a  frightful  sob  mounting  from  her  heart. 

There  were  people  in  the  drive  that  led  out  to  the 
road.  To  avoid  them,  in  that  moment  of  keen  dis- 
tress, she  turned  aside  and  escaped  in  the  direction  of 
the  garden,  along  the  big  brick  building,  past  the  wings 
and  various  outbuildings.  The  open  air  calmed  her  at 
last  and  prevented  the  new  convulsion  of  sorrow. 

She  stopped  walking.  Where  was  she?  In  what 
section  of  the  infirmary,  that  was  big  as  a  cemetery? 
She  could  not  make  it  out,  decided  to  return  the  same 
way,  traversed  many  paved  paths  between  grated  win- 
dows, and  passing  through  a  little  yard,  reached  a 
building  isolated  as  an  island. 

"What's  that?" 

At  the  foot  of  the  wall  in  front  of  her  some  strange 
recumbent  shapes  were  collected.  She  drew  near; — 
dead  bodies. 

They  were  the  remains  of  animals  sacrificed  in  the 
vivisection  room.  They  cast  out  in  that  corner  every 
day  the  lowly  remains  that  had  served  their  purpose, 
ransacked  and  emptied,  smashed  and  mutilated,  ac- 
cording to  the  varying  nature  of  lesson  or  research, 
each  one  mournfully  travestied  by  the  particular  need 
of  each  experiment. 

She  shuddered  and  made  a  quick  step  aside  to  take 
flight  anew,  then  faltered  towards  the  railing. 

But  there,  in  the  very  corner  of  the  charnel-house, 
stranded  apart  from  the  deathly  heap,  she  saw  a  tiny 
corpse,  rigid  and  frightfully  bloody. 


258  WE  OTHERS 

It  was  a  kitten,  not  more  than  a  few  weeks  old.  It 
lay  on  its  back,  and  seemed  drawn  out  and  emaciated. 
Its  back  legs  were  straight  as  two  drumsticks,  close 
together  upon  the  prolongation  of  the  body ;  the  fore- 
paws  were  folded  upon  a  fragment  of  the  chest.  The 
head,  dappled  with  wounds,  of  which  one  was  the  half- 
open  jaws,  was  no  bigger  than  a  baby's  fist. 

The  woman  stopped  dead.  She  had  felt  her  heart 
gashed,  and  her  hand  went  up  to  the  wound.  She 
went  forward,  bent  lower,  and  looked  closer. 

One  could  make  out  the  spiral  marks  of  the  bonds 
that  had  spread  the  slender  organism  upon  the  mar- 
tyr's table.  The  mouth,  dislocated,  revealed  fine  teeth 
in  pin-point  rows;  and  the  opened  belly  yawned  also, 
black  and  shiny,  letting  the  light  in  upon  entrails  as 
fine  as  skeins  of  thread. 

She  looked  upon  the  abject  creature,  murdered  with 
such  tenacity  and  care,  and  shook  from  head  to  foot. 
Her  eyes  were  drowned,  she  was  stupefied  by  too  many 
unformed  thoughts. 

She  was  familiar  with  the  affairs  of  the  hospital, 
for  she  had  haunted  it  since  the  day  when  her  precious 
little  Adelin  had  been  carefully  carried  in  on  tip-toe, 
hidden  in  a  blanket.  She  had  heard  this  one  and  that 
one  talking.  She  knew  that  even  if  the  surgeons  had 
seized  that  brand-new,  silky  kitten  in  its  full-blown 
frolics  and  its  toy-like  fragility,  and  even  if  they  had 
torn  it  to  pieces,  it  was  for  the  best.  The  torture 
which  destroyed  the  animal  had  no  doubt  served  to 
substantiate  medical  science,  to  discover  remedies  and 
cures — for  there  were,  it  seemed,  people  whose  good 
luck  it  was  to  have  diseases  that  they  cured! — but  in 


THE  MOTHER  259 

spite  of  this  knowledge,  she  shook  her  head,  trembled 
more  and  more,  leaned  against  the  railing  and  began 
to  sob,  quite  overcome. 

When  she  had  cried,  when  she  had  suffered  yet  a 
little  more  pain  than  before,  she  leaned  again  over  the 
little  cold  body,  anxious  to  know  why  she  was  so  sorry 
they  had  killed  it. 

She  felt  sure  it  was  because  of  its  littleness. 

Against  the  bricks  of  the  wall  the  tiny  corpse  lay 
full  length,  in  imitation  of  sleeping  people;  it  even  re- 
called the  frightfully  good  and  quiet  look  of  dead 
babies.  Seeing  its  paws  almost  crossed  on  its  van- 
ished chest,  with  their  claws  like  ends  of  thread,  any 
woman  would  have  thought,  "What  little  arms!" 

Ah,  in  spite  of  the  reasons  that  the  wise  men  would 
give  if  they  were  asked  for  them  (as  God  would  give 
His  if  one  might  at  last  question  Him  upon  unhappi- 
ness),  how  could  they  mangle,  pierce,  and  shatter  so 
small  a  thing?  Clad  in  their  white  blouses,  they  had 
attacked  the  little  animal  overturned  and  contracted 
on  the  table,  its  only  chance  of  salvation  the  facility 
with  which  it  could  yield  up  its  breath!  And  they 
had  found  some  one  extraordinary  enough  to  give  it 
the  first  stab!  At  a  time  when  cradles  are  furiously 
set  upon  by  monstrous  diseases  several  surgeons  were 
found  to  torture  this  kitten  to  the  end,  this  abject  life, 
this  being  so  helpless  that  it  could  not  even  cry  loudly ! 

Yes,  the  condemned  was  really  too  little, — that  was 
why  a  half-healed  heart  was  opening  again  before  it; 
and  above  all,  it  was  too  new-born.  Hardly  had  it 
begun,  when  the  torture  came,  to  know  how  to  gambol 
and  become  familiar  with  life,  frisking  and  purring  in 


260  WE  OTHERS 

celebration.  There  had  been  in  it  the  innocence  and 
the  ignorance  of  an  angel — of  a  little  angel. 

Abruptly  she  cried  out  and  shook  her  head,  awak- 
ened from  a  dream.  All  the  same — an  animal  and  a 
child — what  a  difference  there  is! 

But  as  the  evening  clouded  all  things  with  its  in- 
effaceable shade,  weakening  the  lines  which  distinguish 
one  shape  from  another,  stripping  off  the  ornamenta- 
tion of  mankind,  she  paid  less  attention  to  that  differ- 
ence. She  ignored  it,  in  spite  of  herself,  in  the  gloomy 
reverie  that  held  her  there,  opening  her  eyes  wide, 
trying  to  spell  things  out,  so  many  things. 

Very  slowly  she  understood.  Falling  night  was 
darkening  more  and  more  the  mourning  mother,  who 
could  not  afford  black  during  the  day.  She  could  no 
longer  take  her  eyes  off  the  sorrowful  remains  laid  so 
close  to  her,  but  in  death  and  eternity,  nevertheless. 

"Ah,"  she  murmured,  "it's  dead!" 

She  said  that  "Ah,  it's  dead!"  as  if  it  were  a  reve- 
lation ;  and  such  it  was  in  fact. 

Cast  on  the  charnel-heap,  the  animal  was  hardly 
more  than  an  endless,  formless  stain.  The  pretty 
rhythmic  creature  was  no  more,  nor  the  delicate  de- 
tails it  had  been  so  rich  in.  There  was  nothing  but 
a  consummate,  tragic  apparition,  as  blood-black  and 
shapeless  as  one's  own  heart. 

And  the  revelation  was  exactly  that.  That  motion- 
lessness  was  far  more  significant  than  its  gracefulness 
had  been,  which  men  profaned.  The  silence  that  stole 
from  the  inexhaustible  spring  of  its  mouth  was  of  far 
greater  moment  than  the  weakling  appeals  it  had  scat- 
tered during  its  life.  So  far  removed  from  us  as  it 


•  THE  MOTHER  261 

was  but  lately,  so  silly,  so  little  human,  now  it  was  just 
as  superhuman  as  any  other  dead  thing.  Is  it  not  true 
that  while  there  are  thousands  and  thousands  of  lives, 
trifling  and  distinctive,  complex  and  diverse,  there  is 
only  one  death  for  all? 

That  is  why  little  creatures  are  alike,  in  proportion 
as  they  suffer  pain,  in  proportion  as  they  set  up  their 
little  divine  resistance  to  torturers  or  to  wrong;  and 
especially  in  proportion  as  they  die;  so  much  so  that 
all  little  dead  things  become  relations. 

And  so,  therefore,  when  one  is  a  mother  in  deep 
mourning,  as  this  one  was,  one  is  liable  to  descry,  here 
and  there,  as  it  were,  unknown  children,  strange  and 
pitiful;  little  bodies,  of  a  kind,  that  one  adopts. 

The  proof  of  it  was  that  she  recognised  this  one  a 
little  bit,  and  that,  before  she  left  it,  she  tremblingly 
took  the  blue  frock — the  thing  which  was  all  in  all  to 
her  on  earth — and  placed  it  on  the  frail  corpse;  and 
the  dress  covered  it  exactly,  as  if  it  had  been  made  on 
purpose. 


THE  GREAT  MEMORY 

HE  used  to  wander,  quite  little  and  quite  naked, 
along  the  Cingalese  shore,  a  shore  perfumed  by 
the  ocean  and  by  the  forest,  where  the  trees  and  the 
climbing  roses  select  each  other  two  by  two  and  form 
couples.  The  black  and  shapeless  rocks,  the  grey 
stones  sculptured  in  the  form  of  gods,  stood  there  up- 
right on  the  golden  sand,  between  the  sea,  the  forest, 
and  the  edge  of  the  cemetery,  whence  profound  silence 
overflowed. 

His  tiny  bronze  feet  stirred  like  little  tortoises  in 
the  mottled  water  that  the  last  wave  fringed.  The 
sun  laughed  on  his  face  and  his  neck,  on  his  top-knot 
like  carved  ebony,  on  his  belly  that  bulged  like  a  bronze 
face. 

As  he  grew  up,  he  was  dressed  in  white,  and  old 
Mali,  a  venerable  mummy  whose  innocent  and  feeble 
breath  still  roamed  within  him,  taught  him  the  secrets 
of  the  beginning  and  the  end,  taught  him  everything, 
but  notably  the  way  and  the  tone  in  which  one  should 
chant  the  ten  incarnations  of  Vishnu. 

When  he  was  twelve  years  old  his  father  began  to 
beat  him.  His  mother,  gentle  as  evening,  collapsed 
in  a  corner  of  a  mud  hut  that  summers  had  turned  into 
stone,  respectfully  suffered  the  man  to  strike  the  child. 

Thus  was  he  unhappy,  even  though  he  was  spelling 
out  the  causes  of  creation  and  the  linking  of  human 

262 


THE  GREAT  MEMORY  263 

lots,  in  spite  of  the  deep,  submerging  forest,  in  spite  of 
the  odorous  green  waves,  like  bushes  that  tumble 
down,  weakly,  humanly. 

And  when  the  old  sage  who  had  taught  him  was 
snuffed  out  on  the  surface  of  the  world  and  sprinkled 
in  the  earth,  the  neophyte's  mind,  half -opened  to  the 
truth,  laboured  alone.  He  was  surprised  one  day  to 
see  three  young  girls  go  by,  brown  and  rounded,  one 
of  whom  was  much  more  surprising  than  the  others, 
and  could  only  be  compared  to  the  Virgin  Viradja, 
who  fascinated  Krishna.  As  soon  as  they  had  gone 
by,  he  began  again  more  than  ever  to  be  forlorn  and 
to  enchant  himself  with  dreams.  He  wanted  the 
things  he  did  not  know  of.  The  allurement  of  new 
things  so  engrossed  him  that  one  morning,  when  some 
elevated  English  sailors  were  going  along  the  shore, 
performing  some  sacred  dance  and  singing  violent 
hymns,  he  ventured  to  approach  one  of  these  cow- 
eaters,  and  stammer  to  him  in  English  that  he  wanted 
to  go  away  with  them. 

The  questioned  sailor  laughed.  Another,  a  chief, 
laughed  with  a  superior  laugh.  Then  this  chief  tapped 
hi  >  forehead  and  steered  incontinently  for  the  mud  hut, 
where  the  father  was  thinking  about  nothing,  silent 
as  a  tree-trunk,  while  in  a  corner  abode  a  dark  and 
sighing  mass  of  femininity.  Soon,  then,  along  with 
the  English  ship  on  which  he  was  engaged  as  cook's 
boy,  and  in  his  nice  Hindu  dress,  the  youth  left  Ceylon. 

In  proportion  as  the  coast  faded  away  and  became 
as  vague  as  the  ocean  horizon,  in  proportion  as  the 
past  changed  itself  into  a  future,  one  could  see  the 
rapture  in  the  black  pupils  of  his  white  eyes  and  in 


264  WE  OTHERS 

his  brown  face,  although  he  hardly  knew  what  these 
men  to  whom  he  had  offered  his  life  would  do  with 
him  after  all. 

Yet  these  sailors,  who  drank  a  sort  of  boiling  water 
quite  opposite  to  water,  and  who  ate  masses  of  red 
meat  resembling  their  faces,  used  him  harshly,  and 
even  seemed  to  find  diversion  in  his  distress,  as  in  a 
game.  He  took  fright  and  hid  in  corners,  where  they 
used  to  go  seeking  him  with  shouts.  Instinctively  he 
sought  the  aid  of  a  yellow  Maltese  and  a  glistening 
negro  who  were  on  the  ship.  But  no  one  had  pity  on 
him.  Worse  still,  in  the  Mediterranean  the  sun  be- 
came cloudy,  and  it  threw  a  gloom  over  him,  still 
deeper.  But  there  were  belated  sunset  gleams  of  his 
hopes,  as  they  called  at  one  port  after  another.  At 
Palermo  everything  recalled  to  him  the  shores  he  had 
left.  But  at  Gibraltar  there  was  nothing  at  all  except 
a  frightful  quarrel  between  sailors. 

He  arrived  in  London  in  the  end,  as  one  runs 
aground.  The  sailor  who  had  presided  over  his  de- 
parture from  the  island  of  his  birth  conducted  him 
to  a  bar  in  the  City,  on  whose  front  window  a  painted 
Buddha  was  beaming. 

There  he  lived,  as  nipper  and  as  ornament,  to  attract 
people  and  to  occupy  himself  with  little  menial  tasks 
which  one  does  with  all  one's  might,  and  with  bowed 
head. 

They  assigned  a  room  to  him  in  another  locality,  at 
the  top  of  a  vast  building  furrowed  with  staircases, 
with  corridors  and  corners,  where  lighted  gas-jets 
showed  up  like  poor  ghosts. 

He  obeyed  from  morning  till  night,  and  then  went 


THE  GREAT  MEMORY  265 

to  his  room  to  sleep.  He  hardly  knew  any  more  who 
he  was.  Going  and  returning,  he  felt  himself  spurned 
and  almost  trampled  underfoot  by  the  black  multitudes 
in  the  streets.  Above  all  was  he  confused  by  the  fog, 
in  which  he  felt  himself  imprisoned.  He  put  out  his 
hands,  and  collided  gently  with  this  mud  in  space, 
which  mixed  morning  and  evening,  and  enclosed  the 
streets  with  a  ceiling. 

In  the  bar  devilish  faces  followed  each  other,  that 
glowed  like  furnaces  and  smoked  furious  pipes;  and 
groups  of  men  and  women  as  well,  whose  jests  were 
incomprehensible,  and  their  laughter  and  their  pur- 
poses impenetrable.  Yet  one  rose-cheeked  and  queenly 
lady  appeared  suddenly  to  him,  like  a  true  Hindu 
flower  in  European  disguise,  and  the  vision  of  the  for- 
eigner lent  him  for  a  moment  a  reflection  of  the, splen- 
dour he  had  known  in  the  land  from  which  he  had 
fled. 

She  came  two  days  following,  but  never  again. 
When  she  did  not  return  on  the  third  day,  he  sighed 
and  shivered.  He  went  home  in  the  rain  that  night. 
In  the  rolling  life  of  the  streets  he  looked  more  than 
ever  like  a  little  white  sail,  venturing  upon  the  high 
seas.  When  he  had  climbed  to  his  room,  he  opened 
the  skimpy  window  and  looked  out. 

In  spite  of  the  monstrous  fog,  the  street  lamps  could 
be  seen  to  left  and  right,  like  chains  of  stars  trailing 
on  the  ground.  He  was  cold.  Then  he  went  hot,  so 
hot  that  he  touched  the  iron  bar  of  the  sill  with  relief. 

Then  he  saw  his  past  again,  through  the  dense,  damp 
night.  He  saw  again  the  dark  gulf  of  the  forest,  the 
waves  so  hurried  and  so  human,  the  jays  and  the  green 


266  WE  OTHERS 

parrots  and  the  grey  crows,  and  the  clear  sky  where 
one's  emancipated  gaze  takes  wings  infinite  as  a  bird's, 
or  rather  as  the  soul  of  a  bird.  He  heaved  a  sigh  of 
consecrated  sorrow.  What  sacrilege  to  have  left  the 
riches  of  the  past  for  the  poor  present !  And  yet — he 
was  obliged  to  remember  it — the  last  months  that  he 
had  spent  wandering  yonder  between  the  black  rocks 
and  the  grey  gods,  his  heart  had  been  heavy,  and  his 
father  had  hurt  him. 

He  saw  the  past  again,  and  farther, — his  childhood. 
He  saw  his  little  bronze  feet  again,  living  in  the 
dappled  water  that  embroiders  the  Indian  Ocean.  But 
at  that  time  he  had  sorrows  that  his  mother  never 
found  out,  troubles  deaf  and  dumb. 

He  saw  farther  still;  an  extraordinary  day  in  that 
time  when  he  was  hardly  sundered  from  the  mother 
who  was  nursing  him.  He  was  wailing  prayers  to 
her,  which  sometimes  by  a  miracle  she  understood. 
But  that  unceasing  petition,  although  so  frail  and  so 
disjointed,  was  also  anxiety  and  distress. 

He  leaned  lower  in  the  cavity  of  the  window,  and 
saw  farther  yet — before  his  tiny  infancy,  before  his 
birth.  He  saw  again  the  times  described  to  him  by 
old  Mali,  so  infallibly  informed. 

Farther  and  farther  yet  he  looked  into  the  bosom 
of  the  eternal  past.  There  is  light  and  warmth,  and 
a  background  takes  shape.  The  fields  and  trees  re- 
spond to  a  passing  breeze.  There,  a  long-haired  ban- 
yan is  trembling ;  here,  a  palm  more  tardily  undulates. 
Every  leaf  is  sun-adorned.  The  old  temple  on  the 
hill  looks  new ;  the  statues  and  pillars,  ever  since  sepa- 
rated like  reefs,  are  regular  and  white. 


THE  GREAT  MEMORY  267 

And  himself?  He  is  there.  Yes,  he  recognises 
himself  there.  He  is  moving  forward  with  incredible 
gentleness  and  repose.  In  his  soul  there  reigns  a 
serenity  which  blends  him  with  earth's  profundity;  in 
his  action,  a  patience  which  mingles  him  with  time; 
in  his  eye,  a  clearness  which  opens  it  wide  and  unites 
him  with  space. 

Every  care  and  every  difficulty,  every  consuming 
desire  and  subtle  deception,  are  at  last  uprooted  from 
him.  He  even  feels  himself  restricted  and  immured 
within  a  simple  shape  that  holds  and  bows  him,  that 
only  lets  him  look  on  the  ground  and  a  little  way  in 
front,  and  only  see  the  sky  as  a  silken  scarf  on  the 
horizon. 

The  doctrine  of  reincarnation  explains  all.  If  he 
seems  superhuman  to  himself  in  that  prodigiously  dis- 
tant vision,  it  is  because  he  is  not  yet  a  human  being; 
he  is  an  animal. 

He  is  a  tranquil  animal,  lulled  and  contemplative. 
He  is  walking.  He  goes  up  to  the  pool  that  is  wait- 
ing for  him,  hardly  wrinkled  and  almost  fraternally 
peaceful.  He  leans  over  the  water,  and  finds  that  his 
face  is  the  sacred  face  of  an  ox. 

Those  wide  eyes  are  his,  but  more  chaste  and  more 
purely  void.  He  bears  an  assurance  more  nakedly 
open  and  liker  to  natural  law  than  the  troubled  crea- 
ture he  will  become,  and  that  man  will  continue  to  be- 
come until  the  day  when  Kalki  shall  destroy  every- 
thing, as  the  Supreme  Soul  of  the  Universe  has 
promised. 

And  thus  the  derelict  lad  with  the  fevered  hands 
appears  face  to  face  with  himself,  as  a  great  sage  ap- 


268  WE  OTHERS 

pears  to  a  man.  He  recalls  that  he  was  formerly  the 
serious  companion,  pellucid  and  dignified,  of  the  ele- 
ments. He  did  not  even  care,  then,  that  he  was  al- 
ready more  profound  and  more  mad  than  the  grey 
stone  carven  in  godlike  form,  which  in  its  turn  is  less 
worthy  than  the  black  rock,  divinely  shapeless. 


THE  MISTAKE 

WHEN  I  was  quite  young  it  was  that  I  was  over- 
taken by  that  strange  variety  of  sensitiveness 
which  was  to  lead  me  into  crime. 

I  was  a  dreamy  schoolboy,  with  a  little  pale  face. 
The  natural  surroundings  of  my  tender  years  delighted 
me — the  sky,  the  fields,  and  evening,  which  dawns  in 
the  garden;  but  much  better  still  I  liked  quivering 
things.  I  had  the  emotion  of  life,  and  that  was  my 
chief  concern.  I  shared  the  sadness  and  the  ill-luck 
of  the  beggars  who  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  road,  or, 
worse  still,  of  the  street.  *  It  was  too  easy  for  me  to 
feel  compassion  for  others.  When  stories  of  poor 
people  were  related  in  my  presence — justly  or  unjustly 
struck  down  by  fate — I  was  seized  with  fits  of  crying; 
and  then  in  the  night,  before  going  to  sleep,  in  my 
momentous  solitude,  I  whispered  the  stories  over 
again,  so  that  I  could  cry  better  about  them. 

But  lo,  I  began,  little  by  little  and  in  spite  of  myself, 
to  be  more  affected  by  the  suffering  of  animals  than 
by  that  of  men! 

I  remember  the  evening  when  that  infirmity  of  my 
heart  began.  We  were  sitting  around  the  family 
table,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  lamp.  Engravings  were 
piled  on  the  cloth,  mournful  and  affecting  scenes  in 
the  lives  of  the  lowly,  and  we  were  looking  at  them  in 
our  turns,  both  the  little  ones  and  the  grown-ups. 

269 


270  WE  OTHERS 

Every  picture  made  me  shiver  a  little,  but  suddenly 
there  was  one  which  lacerated  me.  It  represented  a 
poor  man's  funeral;  the  only  follower  was  a  dog, 
walking,  and  I  almost  groaned.  One  wondered  what 
would  happen  when  once  the  coffin  was  hidden  by  the 
grave,  when  once  the  dog  knew.  One  wondered  who 
would  look  after  him,  he  who  alone  followed  the  dead. 

But  it  was  not  that  anxiety  only  that  pressed  upon 
me  while  I  looked  at  the  curly  black  dog  following 
with  solemn  step  the  carriage  that  enclosed  his  master. 
It  was  the  revelation  of  all  the  unhappiness  there  is. 
Never  had  I  understood,  as  that  scene  made  me  under- 
stand, the  momentousness  of  separation,  the  immense 
tragedy  of  mourning,  the  frightful  punishment  to 
which  those  who  live  together  are  liable.  And  I  could 
not  help  thinking  that  if  the  artist  had  shown  a  man 
or  a  woman,  or  even  a  child  or  a  greybeard,  behind 
that  coffin  en  route  for  eternity,  the  scene  would  not 
have  called  up  in  me  the  same  world  of  distress  and 
imaginings.  I  tried  to  recover  myself;  I  blamed  my- 
self for  that  misleading  compassion.  But  I  forbade 
and  alarmed  myself  in  vain;  I  was  obliged  to  submit 
to  it. 

I  grew  up  and  went  to  work.  My  sensitiveness 
was  still  as  frail  and  juvenile,  but  it  continued  to  se- 
lect of  all  sorrows  the  lowliest,  that  it  might  throb  in 
sympathy. 

No  doubt  I  was  affected  by  the  news  of  wars  and 
the  details  of  disaster;  but  there  were  other  happen- 
ings which  marked  eras  at  that  time  in  my  youthful 
heart. 

There  were,  for  instance,  the  great  stags  that  cow- 


THE  MISTAKE  271 

boys  lassoed  in  the  prairie,  to  saw  off  their  antlers  and 
draw  all  their  teeth,  which  might  be  doomed  to  deco- 
rate the  meeting-place  of  some  society.  An  illustrated 
paper  had  given  a  picture  of  one  of  these  animals,  its 
forehead  lopped  and  its  toothless  jaws  shattered  by 
the  hasty  surgery.  Again  allowed  to  stand  (for  in 
supreme  mockery  they  restored  their  liberty  to  the 
martyrs  who  could  no  longer  eat),  it  was  looking  with 
deep  and  infinite  stupefaction  upon  him  who  had  the 
courage  to  photograph  it. 

There  were  the  dogs  of  Constantinople,  which  they 
heaped  by  hundreds  into  boats,  and  then  took  them  in 
big  tongs  to  drop  them  in  the  sea,  in  sight  of  a  rock 
where  they  went  to  die  and  rot.  One  time  it  was  a 
wandering  dog  that  children  crucified  in  a  quarry  and 
stoned  to  death.  Another  time  it  was  a  pregnant 
bitch  which  some  urchins  tortured,  to  amuse  them- 
selves by  causing  the  confinement.  There  were  the 
lambs  on  their  way  to  the  slaughter-house,  who  have 
both  legs  on  one  side  broken,  so  that  they  will  not 
gambol  away,  and  who  prop  themselves  against  the 
flock;  and  many  other  tragedies  of  the  streets,  the 
laboratories,  and  elsewhere.  There  was  the  national 
protest,  piercing  and  frenzied,  of  the  bull-ring's  spec- 
tators, against  the  cuirass  for  protecting  the  bellies 
of  the  poor  old  horses  of  the  picadors,  which  would 
detract  from  the  elegance  of  those  sacred  encounters; 
and  so  many  other  demands  and  yearnings  of  the  sort. 

Yes ;  in  spite  of  the  dreadful  headlines  of  robberies, 
murders,  fire,  and  shipwreck,  it  was  those  different 
deeds  which  in  my  eyes  sullied  my  time  above  all  else. 

Certainly  I  was  under  no  illusion  concerning  the 


272  WE  OTHERS 

real  but  restricted  intelligence  of  animals.  I  knew 
what  they  are,  and  what  a  man  is,  and  the  abyss  which 
divides  us.  Then  why — why? 

I  did  not  succeed  in  understanding  it.  Once  or 
twice  only — once,  especially,  when  I  was  stared  at  by 
an  old  shepherd  and  his  old  dog  at  the  same  time,  and 
the  gaze  of  the  latter  seemed  to  me  more  beautiful  in 
the  heart  of  it — once  or  twice  only  could  I  surmise 
that  here  was  a  sort  of  miracle  of  simplicity,  just  as 
unintelligible  as  the  divine  miracles,  and  just  as  divine. 

And  then  happened  the  tragedy  that  I  have  to  con- 
fess. I  was  then  a  soldier  in  an  expeditionary  column 
in  the  depths  of  Southern  Algeria.  I  had  been  put  on 
sentinel  duty  at  the  edge  of  a  wood,  near  our  camp. 
I  had  orders  to  stop  any  one  from  passing,  at  all  costs. 

In  the  tepid  grey  of  the  dawn,  a  slight  noise  roused 
me,  and  I  saw  in  front  of  me  an  enemy  horseman, 
who  had  stopped  twenty-five  yards  away. 

Standing  on  his  wide  stirrups,  with  one  hand"  over 
his  grimacing  and  fiercely  attentive  face,  the  tall  bar- 
barian warrior  scrutinised  the  road  with  no  suspicion 
of  my  presence.  His  white  horse,  rearing  on  his  slen- 
der, trembling  legs,  looked  at  me  with  the  eyes  of  a 
gazelle. 

Suddenly  they  darted  for  the  road  I  was  guarding. 
I  levelled  my  rifle — to  obey  my  orders.  I  took  aim 
at  the  horse.  But  something  stronger  than  I,  stronger 
than  everything,  made  me  raise  the  weapon  and  aim 
higher.  The  shot  rang  out;  the  horse  galloped' on, 
but  the  man  fell. 

What  matter  the  subsequent  details?  It  remains 
to  me  to  say  this:  I  know  that  I  committed  a  crime, 


THE  MISTAKE  273 

for  I  might  have  spared  the  life  of  one  of  my  fellows 
without  breaking  my  orders. 

I  know,  I  know  all  the  reproaches  I  deserve,  and 
what  may  be  said  of  me.  I  said  it  to  myself  aloud 
the  moment  I  saw  that  Arab  reel,  waving  his  arms  as 
though  he  would  try  to  hold  fast  to  space. 

Then  why — why  ? 

Desperately  as  before.,  but  with  more  hurry  and 
vigour,  I  seek  to  explain  myself  to  my  own  eyes,  to 
know  myself  farther  and  better. 

I  am  succeeding  badly.  Yet  there  is  a  little  guiding 
gleam.  I  believe  that  the  reason  of  this  inclination  of 
mine,  always  to  find  the  lowliest  sorrows  more  infec- 
tious than  the  others,  is  the  very  innocence  of  those 
lower  creatures  that  I  have  loved  to  the  point  of  crime, 
their  extraordinary  innocence. 

My  brain  and  my  heart,  like  yours,  like  those  of  all 
of  us,  are  not  yet  capable  of  understanding  men  pre- 
cisely. Men  are  too  complicated. 

Too  many  things  befog  and  benumb  the  first  glance 
one  throws  on  them;  they  are  self -concealing,  too, 
more  than  self -confessing.  But  animals  let  them- 
selves be  seen  face  to  face.  I  myself  can  already  spell 
out  the  few  infinite  things  they  hold.  Once  in  your 
presence,  they  reveal  nakedly  the  miracle  of  living, 
and  that  of  suffering.  If  the  look  in  their  eyes  is  af- 
iecting,  it  is  because  they  are  wide  open,  and  one  dis- 
covers in  them  sooner  than  anywhere  else  the  deep 
truths  that  are  common  to  us.  It  is  easily  understand- 
able, then,  that  our  pity,  still  an  infant,  sometimes 
goes  urgently  out  to  them  before  considering  the 


274  WE  OTHERS 

others;  for  pity,  the  greatest  of  human  feelings,  is 
made  up  of  understanding  and  of  light! 

A  day  will  come  when  our  hearts  will  understand 
rich  ones  as  well  as  poor  ones.  I  bless  that  future 
which  will  be  better  than  the  present.  But  may  my 
mistake,  atoned  for  by  so  much  remorse,  be  forgiven 
me.  It  was  not  the  reverse  of  truth,  but  only  the  be- 
ginning of  it. 


THE  END 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BELOW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE^OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
THIS   BOOK  ON   THE  DATE  DUE    THE  PENULT? 

DAvL;r0REAsE  T°  s°  CENTS  °N  s^sssz 

PERDUE  $'-°°   °N   ™E  SEVENTH   DAY 


FEB  15  J937 


•%&• 


- 


1957 


m 


LD  21-100m-7,'33 


GENERAL  LIBRARY  -  U.C.  BERKELEY 


BOOQ3b27bO 


387684 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


